Fly, little blackbird: deny the smallness

Of your trap while you can.

I will miss the eloquent waving

Of those spindle wrists, the

Evensong played on flighty fingers.

While you are gone I will dabble down,

Dredge for baited crumbs with which

I hope to swell your hollow craw.

 

It cannot be so simple as to

Wish for you the bluest skies –

Instead, skirt swift the isobar,

Store joys beneath your wing.

Aim surely at the beacon

That directs your fledgling glide and

When you find your slit beak

Opening, do not fear the song.         

 

March, 2014