just a bag full of crumbs,"
your words gently say.
I'm tiny and brittle,
not supple and whole,
but somehow worth scattering?
I ask you still.
And you begin to show,
when I question yet don't come,
that help is not what I thought,
not something you hand off to me
like a loaf of bread just-bought,
but the way you draw me in,
the way you hold me,
the way you teach me
to look at you
when I want to know.
You're showing me.
"This is how
I feed the birds."
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