THE YEAR OF THE GOLDFINCHES

There were two that hung and hovered

by the mud puddle and the musk thistle.

Flitting from one splintered fence post

to another, bathing in the rainwater’s glint

like it was a mirror to some other universe

where things were more acceptable, easier

than the place I lived. I’d watch for them:

the bright peacocking male, the low-watt

female, on each morning walk, days spent

digging for some sort of elusive answer

to the question my curving figure made.

Later, I learned that they were a symbol

of resurrection. Of course they were,

my two yellow-winged twins feasting

on thorns and liking it.