As delicate as insect wings, detached
and bumbling around for backyard flowers—

the summer gorse like a second sunlight,
            a patch of heather in full bloom
near the field of lavender where I sleep—

I’m a small miracle of appreciation—
loblolly scattered with birds   disoriented with songs
they chase themselves from tree to tree,
I only sing when I sound like me—

and hope for what comes next—
I wouldn’t trade my voice anyhow,
a crutch to limp from mound to mound,
a safe to keep what’s left intact,
to remember how bad it all can get.