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Friday, June 25, 2010

a poem by me and three photos re-blogged


There were birds here.

One can see where certain

Kinds of grasses have been bent

Down to form places for their

Courting. There are hollows too

Lined with feathers and nests

Made of twigs and string, of floss,

Bright bits and scraps of paper,

Forgotten by all else but them.

Here too are tracks upon the ground.

Here, a book of soothing gathered

From their shapes and movements

In the sky or by the nature of their calls.

Yet, when we come here now,

There are no birds at all. Only

Signs of them remain. We must

Learn a kind of quiet, a special

Patience too and remain long

Enough for us to see them

With our own eyes, hear their songs.

They are like our own dear souls

In that souls must be regarded

In like kind to reveal and be

Revealed before us, full of colors, voices

Moving through the air, among the trees,

The shrubs, upon the waters too. Looking

Deep into the heart, toward dreams, toward

What is every morning of every blessed

Day that we may find birds there,

And know them, that may be quite enough.

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