POEMS

THE TOLL BIRDS TAKE

You have to understand the toll birds take,
perched or on the wing
concentrated beauty is a war of nerves.
One can enter you from any direction
and a fly-through, even by the common sparrow,
can take out the heart.
That’s the nature of ambush,
something that lies in wait: a nuthatch
walking perpendicular
down a tree, dressed to kill,
ruined me for years. Now
I take precautions, cover my eyes
to the Wood Duck, stand back
from the window in winter
when the chickadees come to feed.
Snow is a bad thing where any birds gather,
so much color is always a show of force.
Look at the ancient crow,
a black glove on the landscape,
one finger always mocking you.
He was ugly, but when Herby Poole
stood up in class in the eighth grade
and imitated the songs of several birds,
including the difficult vireo,
we were never the same.
That was years ago and he died,
don’t birds die, birds above all things
who unnerve us just in passing,
who leave us breathless and sad?

from Lauds

Prayer

I’m cutting my swallows from black silk,
China’s best, Father, so that when flying
they meet with the least amount of resistance
and thank you again for the abundance
of insects over green rice fields
this evening, the water bumpy with frog eyes
reflecting a pink west-flowing sky.

Now, I’m sewing into the material
my red heart because the dead lately
have been a little noisy in my sleep
and about this prayer, Father,
I don’t want any confusion –

I’m mud deep here
in love and would like to stay on
awhile longer at least until I get the sun right,
its light over the rim of this bowl
we all eat from, and watching
while I’m at it, the little spot fires
appearing over the back of my hands –

my age, a quiet invitation
to bird watching
where light around the gray heron,
alone in the water,
dies down, in time, to black
and what the imagination can rescue.

from The Temple on Monday