Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Blackbird

When Wanda heard the blackbird sing,
she was under the slippery elm.
A twig snapped, breaking off,
then a branch fell and the whole nest,
same with the daughter long past her bloom,
swept down by the same spring wind.

Nothing she could do to save them.

As time throbbed in her temples
Wanda turned the calendar's page,
discovering silence in the old space,
illusions, delusions like shards.
In clear daylight, I spelled her out,
through my neighborly manners,
while, whirling above, that blackbird sang.

Nothing I could do to save her.