by M.R. Baird
I dwell in a house that is not mine;
milk snow, lake effect,
eagle overhead flies on
with outstretched wings,
open eyed, above the blinds,
my hands grasping,
the cold, trees fall,
weather comes in again.
This house is full of birds
landing, temporary stop,
then go, look over me to the walls,
through the lens,
ice and bitter surface, empty here,
I am here,
none of this is mine; all.
©2017 M.R. Baird
M.R. Baird was raised in San Francisco on the pabulum of the west coast literary and art renaissance. Offering up poems as a language of shared experience, Baird’s poems are confessional, and often visual; unfolding stories through descriptive imagery.
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