The Empty Thrush

The wind carries thrush notes

from forest to field,

circling flowers, bouncing off bees,

shifting spiders on their webs.

It serenades memories

from the mind’s lethargy,

pulls me into a world

a woman’s love has built.

So I step forth from solitude,

pursue that fine musical wind;

at my feet blooms a path,

in my heart goes an old song.

Days pass before I find her,

a supine statue in a garden of stone.

Here, sunset has covered her eyes;

she pivots inside time.

Upon her chest, a weary thrush;

two sad shapes in a quiet storm.

Rain has filled their sleeping hearts,

has flooded all their music out.

I approach in aching disbelief,

each step sinking deeper in mud.

Her form cracks, crumbles, turns to mist.

I collapse among the cherubim.

And so it is

that an old song can wither away

and forever spin

down the drain of time.