Did I not love you enough for you, my sparrow?
You flew from my arms, Icarus, small sparrow.

Tell me, what do see when you sleep, my only?
Your bed is empty, pillow cold—did you fall, sparrow?

Did you waver, then drop toward the sun, love?
Glance back only once, then stall, sparrow?

Do you remember when the moon sang to you?
I lost you, little bird. You grew tall, sparrow.

Daughter, I search sea, land, and sky for you.
I cry. You don't answer my call, sparrow.


Lisa Fusch Krause lives in Seattle, Washington, where she is a long-time editor. A recent empty nester, she shares her house with her husband, two black cats, and a cactus named “Howard.” Lisa has published both poetry and prose in journals such as Cahoodaloodaling, Cascadia Review, The Far Field, Red Fez, and Scissors and Spackle. She thinks of her writing in terms of “snapshots,” capturing images and moments in time.