Cedar Waxwing

we had chased the dwindling sun

so far up the mountain

no fruit in the forest, but

stale bread across the water

we took a goldfish from it's home

carried it back in faded plastic

to color the new garden

named it Icarus

it became a statue in winter

swift as wind in spring

growing along with us

with the seasons as they fell

through each year to that day

one evening a heron drifted in

with a lance Icarus was gone

the mountain had taken it back

that night the memory

called out to the sun

a language of rarefied air

of wanting to know eden

or just the old woods

what it's like to be made from dirt

the garden, it moves along

walking through sleep

it lives only in the sound

of its new leaves