Bird Watching: A Poem

Photo by Brian Forsyth on Pexels.com

I track grief like birds
in the crosshairs of my binoculars.
A cross marks the spot
where my heart lies.

Cardinals are meant for mourning,
singing dirges in key major
like blood pumping.
They’re resplendent in red,
so when you see them,
you know a little piece of Heaven
sings for you.

I don’t believe in Heaven,
but I believe in birds.
I think if ever I
see my grandmother again,
it will be as a dot of red
against a field of blue.

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