![Blessed are the distracted, for yours](/images/r/media/image/in-the-garden-ciuffo/450x/in-the-garden-ciuffo.jpg)
Blessed are the distracted, for yours
is the bluebird on the line
that catches the eye
the clothes hung up outside
for the first time
the spring that never quite arrives
Yours is the icon on the desk
that’s traveled from house
to house between the person you are
& the person you once were
the question, in the morning,
of what translation to buy
& the internet search
for Icelandic birds, the lists
of what to pack for the trip
you didn’t expect
Yours are the emails you’ve written
in your head, & the ones you send
the house in another place
you might still own & the one
where you write your poems
Yours is the dream in the night
of skin against skin, the lightning
the thunder, the way the stars
are still there even
when you can’t see them
Yours is the tree full of leaves,
the angel with the loosened tongue
& the poppies drying in a slice
of sun though the clouds may return
after only a moment