Poems of a Feather
(``Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.'' Rainer Maria Rilke)
From the leaf-torn tip
of the poplar through
the threads of the wind
the storm thrush weaves
a saraband
of crimson sound
to throat between
the threshing trees
out to a distant
privet hedge
to where a little
hen thrush
listens listens
to throat back a blue
saraband for his
crimson across
the wild air.
In the loom of the wind
the two songs touch
each other now. . . .
Solitudes
know no loneliness.
