When the Finches Start Up by Jeff Hardin for Michelle There are movies you can’t get anywhere else except by standing in a field, remembering how, once, you were a spirit in moonlight, mended by wind through sage grass. Yet now, most of what you say sounds like coming out of a mental institution on your knees, begging to hear the voices again, the ones that used to speak your name. I heard you say remembering not remembering snow was one way of thinking about the mind, how it can’t really get to where it wants to be, not knowing even where that is. Oh is it possible an evening sky’s embroidery can be the “image” you take with you when you yourself are taken away? How many beloveds you hear when the finches start up, flitting from tree to tree. Obsessed with how we don’t touch the stems of dandelions often enough is how I will remember you— who stood on earth so flimsily, who blew seeds into everything with your very own breath. 100 theMeadow
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