“Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.”
~Rainer Maria Rilke
among the first leaves –
then I saw him clutching the limb
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness –
and that’s when it happened,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree –
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing –
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky – all, all of them
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then – open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.
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