Growing Wings

My father loved cardinals.

He said they carried something the other birds did not, as if a little piece of the evening sun had decided to grow wings.

After it rains, they are always the first ones I notice.

Not singing.
Just there, red against the washed-out branches, waiting for the world to collect itself again.

I think love must be something like that.

Not the storm.
Not the breaking.

The small, stubborn thing that returns afterward.

The earth breathing its deep green breath.
The wet leaves shining
like they have been forgiven.

The quiet that settles over everything
not empty, just healed enough to begin again.

I stand outside my door
and watch the cardinal
tilt its head toward the sky, and for one unbearable second
I cannot tell
whether I am missing my father or simply remembering
that nature grieves too.

Maybe that is all love ever was

not holding on

but returning

again and again

to the places
where something beautiful
once lived.