First outing of spring—
 
the blackbird and I follow
 
a steep mountain path.

 
 
 

the apricot tree
 
awaits its winter pruning—
 
blackbird winks at me

 
 
 

Sunday morning rain—
 
the left wing of the blackbird
 
quivers with each drop.

 
 
 

When I write poems,
 
blackbirds fly from my fingers,
 
wrens leak from my eyes.

 
 
 

Become the blackbird,
 
or if not the blackbird, then
 
at least its shadow.

 
 
 

Into emptiness
 
that no ringing bell can fill,
 
a blackbird enters.

 
 
 

Summer drifts away—
 
what can you tell me, blackbird,
 
of the days to come?