Happy birthday, Samantha Henderson
Whenever she writes, the bones come down
Come down, come down, they come around
They stand and stare through her windowpane
Gray as a tangle of ash in the rain
They watch her at her work
She writes, she writes, she lets them in
Their birdcage ribs, their ragged grins
They cluster and cluck near her escritoire
One tries on her hat and an old peignoir
She scribbles the bones to heel
And if you ask her, "Are they real?"
She closes her laptop and laughs.
Happy birthday, samhenderson. I am glad you were born.