Sweet mute bird.
The cold season
Stays your tongue
In your chest.
Yet you greet each day
With anticipation —
That first performance.
On incarnadine sheets
He paints wishes and hopes
That curl and lope
Through a vast landscape
That stretches on and on
He fastens a paper steed to ride upon
For horizons of dreams
Horizons of songs
An artisan labors
Faithful and long
If I gave you a thimble, would you give me a needle?
And if I hummed you a tune, would you sing me a song?
On a summer day, in the shade of your presence
I bask in the coolness of your touch
And point our clasped hands toward the sky, to ask:
Now here is our road, would you journey with me forever?
The shepherd tumbles his ditty
Into wide open arms of air
His oblivious charges gorge on long grass
Bleating in familiar accompaniment
Those birds that chirrup a sweet song
Perhaps they were born with gifts
But the Mockingbird learns tune by tune
Listening to the beauty of others
Note by note he copies and twists
Until his hard work yields a repertoire
As brilliant as the colors of autumn
If spring follows winter
Then your eyes are the height of summer
And your lips only promise song.
Even your barbs are tender and blunted.
In anger, I still find the vulnerable shaking
Of a compassionate, easily-bruised heart
Which I once wrapped myself in on a cold, lonesome night.
Overhead, the sky
Slowly, gold tones permeate
A wren pipes his song