Blackbird ArchiveLines Composed Above the Occoquan River
The past nags like a deerfly that won't be shooed: I know its sting, its aftermark.
Melancholy, which once seemed sweet, turns like last autumn's cider to vinegar.
My beard has gone gray, but not my heart. Not yet.
Cold wind. A whetted edge of snow in the air.
Nonetheless, the returning birds bring with them sutras and psalms.
~
Silence for all its negations and privations remains adequate shelter.
The sun left its mask on the water. The tops of trees blew every direction at once.
If I lost a set of keys years ago, then for years I left the door unlocked.
The plaster's hairline crack lengthened and zigzagged down the wall.
Nonetheless, the returning birds bring with them sutras and psalms.
~
The more I whittle away the self the more the heartwood shows.
I point to the litter of curled shavings on the ground and conceal the thin stick
in my hands.
A thousand and one words to confirm the null, a thousand more to illustrate,
A thousand more to compound the conundrums, a thousand to surrender.
Nonetheless, the returning birds bring with them sutras and psalms.
~
My beard has gone gray, but not my heart. Not yet.
Although melancholy sharpens and turns, I still recall its sweetness.
The wind's fricatives fumble through the undergrowth as a stutter that will
not give way to a word.
In the hibernal dusk of early spring, I listen as if they will.
I listen to the returning birds. I listen to psalms. To sutras.