A thousand trees from sunset,
each with a hand held out our windows
cupping an apricot wind,
a warm pine breeze combs through our hair.
We curve, and twist,
take one last dip
before the fall of the sun
and the rising
of a champagne moon
bubbling up,
spilling the glass,
jealous of day’s light.
And just like that,
she’s cresting the berried branches,
nesting on the seat
between us,
that thing with feathers,
suddenly thirsty, opening wide,
suddenly bright.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
For The Word Garden Word List and
Hope is the thing with feathers – Emily Dickinson, of course.