Friday, April 6, 2012

a poem: Quiet Bird

Quiet Bird

Time passed quickly,
warm water on white plates
rinsed the morning away.
Present became past -just like that.

Outside my window she
gathers twigs, moss, bits of string –
I watch, quietly stirring
hot tea with cream.

Painted perfect
shades of brown and
black, white and gray,
she sings her song.
I sit quietly, reading
cummings, Oliver, Jong.

Dusk falls, the autumn
garden tucks itself in.
I pluck a sprig of woody
thyme and two tiny onions,
perfect for soup supper.

Muddy shoes crush dead
 leaves, the ruddy scent fills the air.
I close the gate behind me
the only sound a far off crow  -

Won’t you sing to me quiet bird?

But there you are
clothed in brown and gray
at rest in the leaves,  soft feathers 
still warm to the touch,
content  that the end has come.


Anonymous said...

i hope that when my end comes i will be content too

Beegirl said...

Beautiful. Wishing a wonderful Easter weekend..
PS- I bird just sat here, looked through the window, and sang to YOU..while I was typing.

Denise said...

Michelle - each word that you choose for your poem was just perfect. It created such a picture in my mind. Thank you for sharing it. I look forward to the next one.

Jennifer said...

oh michelle. this is beautiful. i feel i want to print it out to read another day. you are a true poet.