The Mockingbird in May
       

A mockingbird sings near my son's grave
He is out of sight, one of many in the great oak trees,
but the song is intensely clear,

coming through the wind and the leaves.
The evening empties, nothing here
but rustle and song and gusty breeze.

Unseasonably cold, after the hard
rain, Sunday ends with bright sky
to the east, over there where

a woodpecker rattles an undertow.
Another echoes it higher,
louder against a dark tree.

All I know are the sparrows,
the dove call, the mocking,
the low staccato roll, the caw of crows—

the descent; and the pebbles placed in a
row on the tombstone to represent
the mourner who came
and those others who didn't come.

Copyright © 2010 Madeline Tiger All rights reserved
from The Atheist’s Prayer
Dos Madres Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission