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Mary Barnard

When ambushed by five-star memories,

our bodies electric with the old possibilities,

new snow intensifies the reflection of too-late light.

Inside the sign on the far wall in full relief

but not the kind that cants toward closure.

Finches need no witness to their nights and days.

Coming in gangs, rose and gold, they perch on pegs

un-budge-able even by the imperious jay.

Their daily gorging empties the feeder and

they all, sparrows, juncos, finches move on.

In our need for witness we rotate alone, arms

like wings outstretched, heads tilted skywards,

in an air-less landscape where healing begrudges us

a timeline, gives instead a loose-fitting wrist-watch

with ironic precision, hands that can go either way.