The way Blackbird swallows the silver phial of morning —
Her voice, a water -drop
Thistledown woven spider-net abandoned nest
a cup upturned under the wrong tree
light as breath hedge-fallen gloveback
nature retrieves her mess of twigs grasses
meticulously bit-by-bit In wind In liquid air.
Wren leads the charge, her small soldier heart. Follow her flitting sound into the lowest corridors
This is not a universe, It is a garden. Trees, a hierarchy of halls, halls, a universe to sing.
Follow wren’s sound into the lowest corridors. There, a huge gap, fox -made, is where blackbirds sing.
Stone-plateaued, daisy garlanded, ground-held.
Tree looms above it all. All descends to metaphor. Here, A leaf fallen is always a poem. This is a place for birds.
Wren wingtips an ancient hedge leading us into her halls always up, and up, she flies fleeing into clematis’ swing rope.
Still, I hear her song— Clematis petals fall, this is a place for birds.
Early summer occurs in a calamity of falling young petals, birds, the bright souls of birds.
A small dead bird is at my feet, tree looms over this soul-ossuary dignifying the small body with her dark needles, bird-map-lost Obliterate—
A small mourning shadow passes over grass, just long enough to hide the living bird, shadow moves against it tipping it to a tremble, as if it were fly-flicked, wing-tipped.
it is dawn, the nodding daisies mourn. bent arc of its chest, a birdcage laid bare on dew drenched grass. one velvet tipped glove is open, supplicant on the altar of the rising sun.
Step-by-step learning, voice recordings you can share, and review reminders.
