On this day, which seems a portal to the rest of life, A pair of Rose breasted Grosbeaks come to the feeder Under powerful white beaks, their throats are brilliant red. And Pound’s words: “What thou lov’st well” come to mind. “What thou lov’st well” Words I recited to Janey when her husband died. To myself when I lost my house, And that job, thirty years ago. When mother’s white hair signaled her mortality Now, this beautiful bird And coffee And taking breaths An oriole in the apple tree Picking nectar out of May blossoms... “What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage”
I always wondered: Is this true? So far, it has been.