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?

 
 
 

Blackbird, dare I hope
 
that when you sing at daybreak
 
I will know your song?

 
 
 

so many questions
 
for stones and oaks and blackbirds
 
so great the silence