Friday, August 16, 2013
Bird in TreeHarder to explain the forthright perchOf the moon in a sunned skyTo you, who asked no question to begin with;Harder to catalog the ways that glistenIs justified, given the war that’s on,The sadness we have seen.It is true: I cry over the stars I cannot see,Over the wound of the peony against my heartOver the dahlia that I leave to its own intrepid devices.Over how you married me, after all,Regardless of my dancing with my shadow,And despite how the hat that I chose for the occasionForecast nothing of my desire.What will happen if I die before I’ve hadMy all of beauty, or if I die young: What then?Might I entrust you with my urgency,Entirely impractical as it is, and boring,I’m sure it seems, given the facts of the matter:The hour passes over and then by, and the moonIs a beast in the sky, and seasons have their elucidations,And the dahlia must be tamed. Until then I will takeMy living seriously. I will take my gardens and my bees,My vestigial traces, my birds that return to the nests in their treesAs signs. And I shall take you as my husbandFor your hands are sweet and your cheeks are so perfectly reclined,And because little by little and more by moreMy loving does not hurt you.
When I read it again today I realized how abundantly true this poem remains. And it is a beautiful day out there. And so I share it.