Bird Song
—I am late. Private.
Complacent. Past condition.
(—Her voice.)
—Morning. Sunlight. Coffee
back on the deck watching life
at a feeder. Nothing is left
by noon but commotion
of new leaf, a bold
new white note:
I am enough
I am—enough
but no not yet
not that
my life my joy
my light
my love my one my way
He comes back and he laughs.
—Another day off?
—Sits there and fidgets. A door
slams behind him and then
leave be?
be loved! beloved
It seems . . .
there’s no need to fear, it’s just, I’m
four days late now.
—I’m sure
it’s nothing at all.
—Hear the birds at it?
our love
our seed our god our greed
Do you
hear them?
—I don’t hear them at
all, no.
our light our lot! too late
to grey to grave! or leave