Winter, NYC

I see a single pigeon
apart from a nearby flock
pecking at the frosted earth
and I mistake his usual
bulge-eyed look
for loneliness.

I watch the weak
winter light lick the
stripped and shivering trees
and it’s so tender and
welcomed I could cry.

And my heart breaks
for the metal chairs
put away for the season
stacked in rows so neat
and quiet you’d never guess
that the tangles of cold steel
are just yearning
to be taken down
and touched.


Hold The Mirror

When you hold the mirror up for me
The angle is never quite right
I look old
I look tired
I look pale
I look frail

But I am young
I am vibrant
I am radiant
I am strong
These things I know

But when you hold the mirror for me
I cannot see the good
All I see is imperfection:
Imperfection as you would see it,
As I would think you see it

But you never see me that way
And I don’t see me that way
So who is doing the distorting?

It’s only when I hold the mirror myself
Do I see truth and beauty
Without agenda
Without fear
But then, also, without you.