When they’ve all flown the coop,
every last one of them,
without so much as a thank-you
(though there were times, there were certainly times),
when there’s no one left to worry about
and check for
and love,
no need for milkweed
good weather
favorable winds
and hope,
then maybe you can imagine
somewhere
a great wheel beginning to turn again,
a clattering of wings
that you can’t hear yet,
and if you can’t imagine, then
you learned nothing, are nowhere
when it’s four-o’-clock, already dark.