Housecleaning—even
the doves quit their backyard nest
to settle next door.

The weeds, like soldiers,
retreat. Raw with battle scars,
my hands reach for seeds.

Sunlight streaming
through windows
fills air with grace
like air cascading
through flute’s
or horn’s bore,
or like water
reflecting off
a rock,
drawing out color
we neglected to see.

Rain mends the garden.
Silvery threads stitch
it back to life.
What needle to patch my heart?

Piecing together
broken rocks,
each rockface
settles in place
like squares
in a Rubik’s cube.
Surely I could rebuild
this mountain,
sings
my shattered
heart.

How the air escapes
through the flute’s bore!
In exchange for breath,
a song.

Her pursed bronze lips yawn.
Silk purse where coins clink unclasps
a treasure: haiku.

I will be a flock of birds:
many desires, one love.
Across the great migratory route
on the arc of the sky,
I will sing.
At the waterholes,
thin blue veins irrigating arid plains,
I will rest.
Beside the river valleys and estuaries—
peaceful waters—
I will leave tracks in the mud.
Even the air
will carry the weight of my wingspan.

I will be a flock of birds:
many desires, one love.
When wingbones bleach
like flotsam
against the riverbanks,
they will conjure lifelines of song.
The songline
is the way home.

Like the V-shaped current
that scoops underwing
when snow geese fly,
I will funnel the wind.
I will be like a rope
that secures the sail,
fastening sailcloth
to wood.

I will be a flock of birds.

With the fly out at dawn,
with the fly in at night,
I will be present,
wings soaring over frozen waters.
Wings will reflect
sun’s scarlet rose:
Many wings, one fire.

So rare a thing,
a poem that sings.
I suppose for all the birds
pecking at the feeder,
only one or two will
startle me with song.

The desert
swallowed whole
entire villages:
lofted cliff apartments
empty now
Iike the nests
of migratory birds
whose inhabitants
have abandoned
such austere perches.