Her sorrow is the song of birds
a nest, bits of string and paper
wound tight to the bough.
It is a swallow in river swoop
an instinct, a knowing.
It is whip-poor-will in moonlight
blood haunt at dawn, widened eyes.
It is red-winged blackbird
on the thin reed crying home.
It is sparrow that flies through
emptiness, search for roost
belfry, steeple, God.
It is rareness of a nightingale
caught deep in fury of thicket
her song a burst of heart
flutter of fingers
against furrow of brow;
your head on feathered pillows.