Flutter-by

It’s baffled by conservatory glass —
this winter miracle flits to and fro
and I stretch out my hand, a gentle clasp
a fleshy cup to share imprisoned woe.
The flutter on my skin reminds me of
the severed nerve that’s trapped within my jaw;
the twitch, as stymied by the scaffold glove
it meets a wall of leg bone new and raw.

I am a modern miracle, it’s true
the treatment’s bark was harsh to save the bite.
Irradiation did its job and blew
the tumour far away and out of sight.

Outside I open up my hand — it flies
away, and I’m a quiet bridge of sighs.