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,
calls me to a world
a woman’s love has built.

So I step forth from solitude
and pursue that musical wind.
At my feet, a path in bloom;
in my heart an old song.

Days pass before I find her,
a supine statue in a garden of stone.
There, sunset covers her eyes;
she pivots inside time.

Upon her chest, a weary thrush;
two sad shapes in a quiet storm.
The rain has filled their sleeping hearts,
has flooded all the 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 an old song can wither away
and spin down the drain of time—
no longer allowing us to love
in the way we once loved.