The Poet at Midnight

Barefoot and moon-lit
she sneaks to the shed
to consider the
bucket of bones
she keeps on a shelf

picks at the
small white moments
she never thinks to bury

only to hold them again

turn them over
in her hand

press her thumb
into their curves
and brittle endings

remember sometimes
the soft flesh
that held them together once,
their silken wings of flight

oh how they soared!

When she is quiet enough
she hears them sing

whisper secrets
and stories
she saves in her pocket

shimmering

burning to be told

Photo by Jonathan Read, WildCraftsUK. ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .