All afternoon his mournful song, the pigeon
On the power line, he sings for all the lost
Birds of winter, all the flock mates’ cost
Paid to storms and hawks, like religion
The music is deeper than a syllable
It is just a single note struck twice
But carries inside of it a universe precise
As any hymnal, a note familiar as the tillable
Dirt, turning dirt in the soul of spring
And seeing all the bones beneath the earth
Where worms blind dance; hope for things
Planted is carried in all that death
A pigeon song, a howling wind, all words
Hope and loss eternal lived of birds
No comments:
Post a Comment