You will take wing, Mockingbird

You will lift your wings, robin, and fly down these three bushes

Hanging hooks, and thus - in my confinement -

evoke the memory of the furry lupine

When dusk invades the stillness of the pea kingdom.

You will lift your wings and fly through the thick of faded willow

whiskers, a thousand tiny drops of dew.

The heart is dizzy from the sudden shock that

will cascade down the green slope of the pods.

The spasm will destroy the hanging bush, but

leaves a mystery. It may have just happened.

When setting a trap, a hunter carelessly

stepped on a dead branch and the break was crisp.

Only a thin ribbon-like path

winds through the darkness, and the white and seriousness of Ash.

No water bubbling or shotgun beeping can be heard here, and

nor can we see the vase and the men and horses in the sky.

The night runs on inverted wings, high up, and

above the trees that now hang upside down-

as persistently as one remembers the past.

The silent past that still seems to be alive