after James Wright

A cardinal bounces from the young rose bush

Amanda planted last year to the privacy fence

between us and the cul-de-sac of townhouses

and duplexes. It blends with those hesitant

blooms, that sky of cool blood.

The backyard teems with life,

patches of green growth and bulbs

and unsure wood bees, birdsong and

the calcified remains of leaves

I left through the winter,

and if I have not fully wasted my life

then I have certainly left a rocky trail

littered with unopened flower buds, drops

of plasma from thorns, dead branches

never pruned. If only for unbroken wings,

if only for a few hops and flaps and then the top

of the fence and then beyond, if only for my boys

watching from the porch through binoculars.