What should I do when I love doomed things?
When I love dead and dying things, and tangled and mired things that are not about to become free? How do I handle that?
It's not comfortable, but I don't want to stop. And I don't want to have to feel sad, not only sad,
and I don't want you to think my love is tragic.
There's sweetness here, and splendor. There's beauty and nourishment and I'm scared to climb
all the way in. It feels lonely,
but not because this place is lonely. Because I think you might not love me when I'm up here.
You might not want to play with me when you know this is who I am: a person who loves
dead baby birds.
And keeps loving them, and wants to.
And I don't know if it will help if I tell you that I want to love the dead baby birds
on your roof.
To love them and not try to make them live, or sweep them up; that's what I hope to offer.
Also your birds that fly.
But here's the magic, joyful truth:
I think you
will love me.
I think you already do. I think you were here when I got here, up on the roof with the skeleton swallows
and the live swallows.
Which makes me feel lucky, so lucky, and thankful and glad