When we gather black feathers
from the nest of the crow
to stuff the head of the scarecrow full, it is not some
obscure form of cannibalism
but a comment on how
fear resides between our ears.
When the days begin to grow
shorter and mornings crisp as apples, I turn into a bear.
I do not yet know whether this is transformation
In the meantime, hold me
because I’m open as a window
and the storm is rousing the trees.
Copyright © Michael Bazzett
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.