Today's poem is by Ann Silsbee
You love their singingthe thrush, the orioles
though they don't perform for you. Theirs is a clan
song: My bugs, my bough, my mate, and:
See how bright the orange and black of my feathers.
Nor do they sing for blighted love and the hard
blues of loss we would, or for joy,
but because they can't help it, because song
blossoms from the stem of their being bird.
Human, you can't help trying to understand
what stalk you flower from, what undertow
rises in the flutist to quicken with breath
the arcs and dips of prior minds, or mind
itself, playing with fugue, with E=MC²,
inventing wheel, organ, flute, B Minor Mass
Buddhathe bomb. The song you bear buds
under your mind's tongue like a first word.
Copyright © 2003 Ann Silsbee All rights reserved
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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Copyright © 2002, 2003 Verse Daily
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2002, 2003 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved