THE ONLY WAY OF LOOKING AT A BIRD
( for Glyn Pope )

she looked at the bird
with all of her self

as if by some alchemy
of thought

she flew into
its shape

as it became the air
her mind opening

its wings
to the sky

the house now
a little blue egg

far far below her
her voice curving

into a beak
that flung its being

into the song
of self

scrawled across
a sky

becoming sunset
so that

becoming human
again

was a grief
that could only be

expressed
in birdsong.

anxiety hit
the shakes followed
and the snow was hitting the house outside
surreal almost
sounding like pop rocks
in a moist throat.

oh she wanted to be held by
the strong hands of inner peace
she layed in bed and
prayed for forever as well
as now.

On winter’s margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.

With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs;
By snow’s down, the birds amassed will sing
Like children for their sire to walk abroad!
But what I love, is the gray stubborn hawk
Who floats alone beyond the frozen vines;
And what I dream of are the patient deer
Who stand on legs like reeds and drink that wind; -

They are what saves the world: who choose to grow
Thin to a starting point beyond this squalor.