A poem for my final day in Copenhagen
Two birds are singing in Fredericksburg.
One with a chirp
The other, a smooth melody
They draw me out to my balcony
Though the spring sun has set and the winter air returned
I cannot see them,
But I suspect they lie in the bush
at the foot of the building, accross the alley.
I wonder if they are partners;
If they would cross the Atlantic to see each other
The birds are singing in Fredericksburg.
A slightly different song,
Than those outside my childhood window.
I realize I miss them all;
The Lullabies and mating calls.
The same but different.
Like how the oak trees of southern Germany
And the false blue waters of the Netherlands
Remind me of home,
Show me truths that cross zones.
Similar but not the same.
The forested hills of Sweden
And the sunlit dusting of Amagerfealled
Reveal gems of the Minnesota river valley
That I find nowhere else.
My homesickness often worries me.
Too often, do I dream of home?
For with every faint whisper
I reminisce about a love
I didn’t understand before.
But I cling to a confident hope
That someday soon,
Or far from now,
A bird will sound.
And I will remember, with growing love,
That I sat on my apartment balcony in the Nordic air,
A blanket around my legs and a journal in my hand.
And I watched the stars peek out,
One by one,
While two birds sang in Fredericksburg.