Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.2

Dried milkweed hang
heavy on brittle branches,
pods held like closed hands
against a hush of sky.

Then a seam gives — papery crack,
a scatter: white skeins lift,
not birds yet, but small weather,
each seed a flake of wing.

The twigs empty their maps;
air fills with soft insistence.
What looked like husk becomes migration,
a sudden translation of the ordinary.

Leave your hands empty.
Watch the ordinary shed itself
and rise, feather by feather, into wonder.