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Empty Backyard

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Who will feed my birds when I am gone,
My hands no longer able to spread the seed,
My ears forever heedless to their chat,
When they stir my backyard back to life
in the evening twilight?

 

And when my eyes caress no more their plumes,
Who will gaze at them leaping from the trees,
Hopping, pecking, nibbling among the roses,
Fluttering living notes in a musical staff
Written on air?

Who will startle them momentarily?
Who will see them return, suspicious though
Persistent friends, used to that intercourse
Known only to the heart,
Beyond all cast of doubt and fear?

When I am gone, will my birds come looking for me?
Where do birds go to die? And where do
Their feathers mix with fallen leaves and flowers,
Their ardent blood becoming nourishment
Of docile grass?

And where their tender flesh, their tenuous skin,
Their valiant heart, their tuneful tiny brain,
Their fragile nerves, their eyes, diminutive
And yet enormous worlds, their trifling bones
Go when they are gone?

Who will feed my birds when I...

 

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Last modified on Sunday, 03 September 2017 17:44

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