“not knowing is most intimate…”

Ethereal in my hand, an iridescent female,
feathers fanned, beak wide open.

I place her in the hollow arbutus stump,
a stupa, covered with wild rose petals.

Did she expect a long life, more sugar water
at the feeder, more buzzing and display?

The glass tricked her
              as images beguile us
into believing
              this life will go on
and on,
               this body will endure
in a certain way
                             of being.
Like the bird, enticed into flying fast,
we dash full force toward something glimpsed 

some truth longed for,
just out of reach, on the far side

where nothing is clear or certain.      

“Christine Smart’s poems perform acts of clear-eyed unsentimental recollection and fierce longing and move with an earthy music that is all their own. The reader is left with a sense of the sharp, bittersweet tang of the authentic.”
Don McKay



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