Death of the Blackbirds
Gold beak firmly shut,
eye still bright
in the deep fur of the softly rounded head,
you lie
by your delicate brown mate,
neat and self-possessed.
Incredible,
in April of all months,
when the year shakes itself awake,
that death should so absorb you.
Now, in the motionless and inarticulate
world of my remembering,
shut out from green gardens, bright
with almond and sweet cherry,
noisy with birdsong,
you exist
encased in the silence of words,
eye still bright
gold beak firmly shut.
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