My children died with feathers Under their tongues Said the woman fishing in the ponds Facing towards the moon A man passes by with a saw Another breaks his bootlace I am told how to get there By the oozing blaze in the pine Before I get the drift of things My gloves wear out I hear birds and whispers Like water gnawing a hull I build a fire In the bottom of my boat A good memory moves me through the current My own blood and sort of wound© Ginny Stanford