Sunday, April 16, 2017
All of earth's worth at the end is birdsong.
Anew at that terminus, little notes
will draw water from your flagging eyes.
The long of life-pleasure turns cud-of-fodder
standing beside the song from one bird
window-near and out of view. A sky pond
lets your sight through if clouds dark it over,
or your own shade of head casts on it
the vibrating silhouette, the tadpole den
edge-tottered, reflecting back more of death
than afternoon; and then one is left
near a field's sister song, in a solitary
mirror; earth is just support enough
to be kicked away or folded up
like a rickety wooden ladder;
and perhaps earth is too much of support
that it lumbers you away from death
into a land of secondhand breath
where every mountain has a quarry,
and every stone has a north face.