Some poems write themselves.
We were walking, talking about the dead
and their partners, who remain.
A grim subject for the bright spring day.
The flash of red offered relief,
and I welcomed the diversion. Watched it
darting toward the road and back.
Oh, look, I said. A cardinal.
We noticed, then, together, that it flew – or tried to
– toward the carcass of another,
hit by the heavy traffic and now still.
And so we waited, wincing at each passing car.
Until you could make your move,
picking up the sad remains to place them on the curb,
where I stood silent, my heart caught up,
by such respect for love.
– Clea Simon