Book of Common Poets

That the irregular line of trees against the sky

Was noted today—

Whether the leaves were bright,

The variance of greens,

Were they moving or still,

If the motion was from wind

Or creatures leaping,

Whether signals or moments passing

Of no intent but that the line was noted,

For the necessity of poems

To those who know we die a little more

When they cease to matter,

Not only that a bird perched on a wire today,

But the color of its talons,

The sheen of feathers dark or light,

Whether they were smoothed or fluffed—

Was it a bird alone, or grouped?

Did they face the same direction,

A choir fronting or with the wind?

Or did one perch apart, forlorn,

Lacking the human word forlorn?
 

Not to impose meaning upon the birds,
But to note their presence on a day

Over the shadows of trees

Darkening the asphalt we drove upon

Without thought, rolling upon shadows,

To offer peace of knowledge

That a poet remains to cry

For the beauty sustained,

Noted and sung without interpretation

Beyond its presence of a day—

The jagged line of trees,

The particular shade of sky,

Will not perish, as a promise made:

Not a luxury of art, but a common need:

To say a family of hawks called in the yard,

That the gardening was good this year—

                                       

                                                                                    July, 2012

                                                                                    for Paula Robison