Poet Lover Birdwatcher

To force the pace and never to be

Is not the way of those who study

Or women.

The best poets wait for words.

The hunt is not an exercise of

But patient love relaxing on a

To note the movement of a timid wing;

Until the one who knows that she is

No longer waits but risks surrendering -In this the poet finds his moral

Who never spoke before his spirit moved.

The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.

To watch the rarer birds, you have to

Along deserted lanes and where the rivers

In silence near the source, or by a

Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.

And there the women slowly turn around,

Not only flesh and bone but myths of

With darkness at the core, and sense is

But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,

The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.