Poem 13

A while back I asked my friend Brie to check my archive of poems to weed out the ones she didn't see going anywhere. As it happened, she had very little time to manage her own blog, let alone help me with mine, so I forged on without her input. However, she who hesitates is lost: the eleventh poem I posted was one she selected to be removed. To be fair, I posted this long before I got her input, and I revised it somewhat, but it still did not meet her standards. I'm leaving it up, but today I'm posting one she said she really liked. Check out her blog, Word Shave Meaning, or Words Have Meaning if you are picky.

Why I Am Awake with My Head Throbbing

When leaves decide the dawn
has crept up suddenly,
they whisper to one another:
“So it begins; so it is always,”
and without their whispers
little birds would not sing
to anyone at all.

It can sound--
sound against windows--
and like chainsaws to alcoholics
trying to drain the last sip of sleep
before rising to open restaurants
and shuffle papers.

And so life begins with little birds
and in some places ends;
their larger cousins glide overhead:
music through bone flutes.

In Tibet they sometimes tear the flesh
from the dead, and leave it
-the sand of a fleshy mandala-
to the beaks and talons.
For what are birds but a visible wind?
Pockets of air even in their bones.