You call for me—O come to me,

I scatter your tears on the lintel beam.

Your will, want-weary, pounds

stacked stone deaf—sealed

old wood silent, still.

Windswell swift whistles

your wings, launches

you trembled over garden walls

that only grow in graces given

least's lowered gaze. You circle

comfort-cold, light-blind,

like starving bats looped in flight,

world-worn, breath-empty—

And you call to me—O come to me—

I rest for you in the dogwood tree—

petals fanned full in compass rose.