In her poem the blue heron leans toward the sun,
poised in a frozen pond, legs caked in frost.
I ask, “Is this real?” She says, “How quickly
time lapses. We need to pay attention.”
I know when lost in the long light, I too
can forget the freezing clutch of the wind.
The sun sets without warning. The cold steals in.
Like the heron I’m held by what I love,
trapped by how it changes without notice.
She says, “I am going up into the sun.”
I long for her grace as wild as the wind
as she soars the fired sky of the dawn.
Too soon I’ll lie flat as ice on this bed
of drool and dream. From my frigid demise
there is no release. I know, like the crane,
my final cry will crack like hollow bone,
unfurl like smoke into glare, and perhaps,
smudge the cold, white sheet of another poem.