Once again, I was wrong.
And didn’t even realize
I thought I was right.
Just looked at the weeds’
sharp heads and assumed
no one would want to eat them
pulled the plants by the roots
across half the garden
as the spring sun went down.
The next morning,
striped sparrows
flushed through the yard.
Clipped seed heads
by the base, swallowed whole
their three-inch spines.
Maybe I don’t need to say it but I will:
how many times this happens each day,
what I think I know painting itself
across the ceiling of my mind,
furrowing the skyline,
tinting the window glass.
And how many times
I don’t see the sparrow,
miss the contradiction,
look past the world glancing back,
whispering defiantly:
think again.
—
Emilie Lygren is a nonbinary poet and educator whose work is grounded in curiosity and reverence. She’s taught writing in a variety of contexts: classrooms, research stations, graduate programs, parks, libraries, and beyond. Emilie’s first book of poetry, What We Were Born For, won the Blue Light Book award in 2021. Find more of her work and words at emilielygren.com.
