Do you remember when you first discovered
for yourself that living things could die?
I came home to my children crying.
Olivia, the nanny, said
They found a dead bird in the yard.
They thought their baby sister killed it,
blamed their unease and confusion on her.
Something had unsettled deep inside them,
and they looked to me to settle it.
What comfort could I offer?
I thought they knew of death already.
They’d been to Nana’s funeral, and
the boys at least are old enough
to remember a while back when my cat died, but
It’s one thing to know about, be told of death
and another thing altogether, I guess,
to find it in your own backyard
when you thought you were just going out to play.
Bird, I never saw you, never knew you, still,
for them, I know the grief of you.
Alive, you sang for us, or ate our bugs, although
these gifts I took for granted.
Dead, your tiny broken body moved
my children’s bodies, introduced them to
their own fragility, their finitude,
the truth that every thing
that has a beginning has an end.
poem (c) 2017 D. Ohlandt
please only reprint in entirety and with credit given