Emily Boyle Poet Prose Poetry

Birds

Birds

Black birds flapped frantic wings,
crashing against the walls inside my head,
churning the waters of my mind 
into dangerous frothing waves.
They cawed and cawed until the soft sounds 
of wind and rain and leaves went silent,
and all I could hear were the violent birds,
trapped, circling endlessly.
Their dull feathers blocked my eyes,
and the world dimmed:
color disappeared, and I could not recognize 
my own hands, or my daughter’s smile.
But then I realized I could open a window,
and one by one they flew away.
The waves died down, 
rolling gently like sunlit grassy hills,
and although feathers remained floating there,
they were flightless, and could no longer 
hurt me; we floated together in the warm sun
and the cool water and the fragrant air
and I smiled.

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