still life

remember missing my footing

but do not recall the fall—

the world seems so different now

thou knowest I don’t know how—

the little wren yet sings

her brittle morning song

I wish to sleep and ne’er wake

sighin’ a whisper—

I love thee, little wren

will she sing offkey again?

...

saw thy smile on the mantle

but turned sadly ‘round and

thought—

I love thee, little wren

but I don’t know how,

thou knowest

I will ne’er think on it now—

the wind‘s ambition a complaint

whilst the beaten sun shades her

most excellent fate

...

even when I cried—

no one's home

and took no joy in her notes

the wren's a terrible scold,

where once I dreamed

of gilded angel wings

and Holy things,

thoughts trapped by

what can never be

thee once more dear to me

…

I held an injured wren

in the palm of my hand

but no song did she make

in the morning crush

when they run so freely

once I wake

to kiss thy pillow held tight

in languorous embrace—

she sang so brightly before

death knocked at my door

...

and clasped thee to thine heart

with arms stiff

and lips pale with dread—

remember our wedding day

solemn vows

our fingers softly entwine

thy smile on the mantle piece

facing down—

I love thee, little wren

but I don’t know how….