I took the bird wing from the shelf

And placed it in a pouch of red gingham.

A bundle misshapen and lonely, save

For its solitary companion, a tin ring,

found trapped in the quarter slot

Of a gumball machine. I do not know

Where this gift will find its resting place.

From my place I can see a cherry tree

Whose blossoms have been affected

By heavy rains and see its soil and beauty,

Or into a patch of midnight irises.

My hands, which look at me, give

No answer and time, the being

Of change remains stopped. The

Utility of offering, giving to get,

Promises only hope, but gingham

Hope is all I have.