Away and away,
unhidden,
a blast of song
spring-bidden,
across the pond,
a mile high,
bumping his head
against the sky,
a splotch of black
like India ink,
with baby leaves
nodding in sync,
bellowing heart
afire with life,
bright as his chevron,
half trumpet, half fife.
One
pierces the twilight
with incorrigible song
defiant
in the face of night.
A ponderous tired sun
pauses
in stately descent
to anoint the singer
with gold.
The day explodes with light
and many a robin aria;
twinkling dew engirds
dandelion luminaria.
Wishing you some form of light,
dear reader,
in this new month.
Somewhere in this barrenness
a quickening song is sung
I look hard but cannot tell
where it’s coming from
I cannot see a bird
so could it be the tree
trilling spring’s first music
coloraturally?
Accusing, narrowed eye,
disapproving glare,
prunish dour expression,
unblinking fiendish stare.
Beneath those rosy feathers
curmudgeon’s heart must beat —
how does such a malcontent
warble song so sweet?
The other day I happened upon
a forum on NPR
a rabbi’s words illumined
a mood as black as tar:
when optimism can’t be had
we must insist on hope,
and keep in mind the difference
as we walk this slippery slope.
I opened the window this morning
Die Zauberflöte silvered the air!
the crimson Papageno,
the high-headed Chanticleer!
Corny it may be
but I need to think it so
the return of morning birdsong
as rabbinical treetop echo.
Is this why birdsong?
Because in some Olympian die
copper clouds are forged?
What else to do but sing and fly?
