WHY I WRITE A POEM A DAY

The rain falls like a gate
around our house,
like the weather
is trying to help us
stay home.

We eat breakfast
and though we are full,
we talk about lunch,
planning small adventures
for our mouths.

I try to read my book
but it is like ice skating
on a lumpy pond,
my attention snagging
on every page.

Mama, he hit me.
She hit me first.
Can we watch?
Can we open one of our presents?

I fake a nap.

The light drains slowly
from the winter sky.

Suddenly,
a bird hits the window
with a soft thud.

I am the only one downstairs.
I open the door and look
at the rain bouncing off the quiet crumple
of feather and beak.

Come on, little one.

He doesn’t move.

Please, you’re okay.

He twitches
and hops to his feet,
and I cheer, which sends him flying
into a tree.

I know I haven’t saved him
with my words,
but I try it on myself anyways.

What a lucky day,
I say to the empty room.

And from then on,
it was.