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Dave Bonta
Goldfinches gad about
in the blossoming crowns of the oaks,
brassy as advertising.
The clouds draw in.
Wood thrushes begin
their evening songs at noon.
Long feathers of rain
on the breeze—a plumage
the exact color of the world.
The fever & the cold
are odd bedfellows.
Even goldfinches turn down the heat
during their autumn molt.
I lie fallow, letting bloom
a virus that slipped in
under cover of affection
& now withers in the ditch.
She went to fight bindweed
among cabbages, peas,
borage, arugula,
potatoes, raspberries
and such. Distracted by
thistles, as they are more
easily removed, she
worked an hour, then eased
ponderously into
her cracked resin chair, out
of breath, watching two goldfinches
having it out
on a mossy fence post.
What is not said in six
syllables is silence.
There was a man lived quite near us;
He had a wooden leg and a goldfinch in a green cage.
His name was Farkey Anderson,
And he’d been in a war to get his leg.
We were very sad about him,
Because he had such a beautiful smile
And was such a big man to live in a very small house.
When he walked on the road his leg did not matter so much;
But when he walked in his little house
It made an ugly noise.
Little Brother said his goldfinch sang the loudest of all birds,
So that he should not hear his poor leg
And feel too sorry about it.