Daylight hangs the trees’
shadows back above the skyline,
their branches nestling in the places
where the light pools.
In between the absolutes
of life and its steady bend
towards the ground once again:
this is where we string power lines.
This is where we give the bruised space
that we call a sky definition, borders,
someplace to exist in peace.
A place to stand and whistle
to the chickadees, like northern
lights far above, asking them
to draw nearer, to trap
our silhouettes in their beaks.
We request that the horizon
with the thought of us.
yes, meaning that you and I
grow soft and edgeless against
this flattened uncertainty of a sky.
The light pools in us, forms
a conviction. We absorb it,
selves the inverse of a whistle.
Thus, we are called closer.
Thus, we become
a dance. A distance.
An (un)expected disappearance.
Jade Riordan’s poetry has appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, CV2, Noble / Gas Qtrly, Outrageous Fortune, Room, and elsewhere. She lives north of Canada’s 60th parallel and volunteers as a selection committee member (poetry reader) with Bywords.