Like the Warbler

This entry is part 47 of 92 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2011

“I dare not eat it, though I starve,—
My poignant luxury….”

~ Emily Dickinson

So clear, it almost hurts: so blue, so green—
that line hurtling into the distance and pulling

like a thick brush-stroke everything that lives
at ground-level: that’s how you’ve lifted me,

little chipped stone that’s traveled
from some far tributary. And the air

is cold, but the heavy clapper sounds the notes
of the bell like a heart hollowed for just this

purpose. But oh, what the bird sings is sweet-
sweet-sweet
. And all these bitter years,

what releases is the same each time: mouth
like the warbler that has learned your name.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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1 Comment


  1. Achingly beautiful. I love that about the brush-stroke pulling the speaker.

    little chipped stone that’s traveled
    from some far tributary

    That’s how I feel often, these days, especially in the rare pools of sunshine.

    Reply

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