Friday, January 11, 2013

The Empty Thrush

The wind carries thrush notes
down from forest to field,
circling flowers, bouncing off bees,
snapping spiders off their webs.

It serenades old memories
from the mind's lethargy,
calls me to an inner sanctuary –
a world a woman's heart has built.

I cut through tangled vines of solitude
and step out into the world.
Warmth and beauty fill the landscape.
The paths become many.

I saunter down a trail and fill with hope,
come to a garden made of stone.
Here the sky reaches so high that I
become an empty voice.

I see her beyond the stone wall,
among caged birds and dying flowers.
Sunset has covered her eyes like eyelids.
She pivots inside time.

A thrush sits upon her shoulder,
its song now vacant from its breast.
Her eyes break like windows
as a storm blows in, floods all their color out.

I run to her in a yell – alive, determined,
each step sinking deeper in mud.
Her image pulls away, turns to mist.
I collapse among the cherubim.

And so it is that an old song can wither away
and spin quietly down the drain of time –
no longer allowing one to love
the way they were once loved.



First published in Poet’s Haven on September 10, 2008.

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