From Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love

How We Burn

Life aches to fill us up and I mean
that the blueness of the sky

shades and colors the hands
of someone in mourning.

I mean that red-winged blackbirds
sing for us, not only the sun,

that when we dare to lift up our eyes,
we see the high clouds in their diffident

caress of heaven, a storm warning
without that calls to us, within. 

I strive to give voice to why it is that
we so love the dying ancient trees

when they arch over this robin’s-egg
dome of atmosphere; or why we muse

over our lives like mariners dreaming
by lamplight whose ships fill with water.

Who will break the news to them?
We put our hands on the keys

as if we are at a grand piano, reaching
for an unnoticed, unscored chord,

or we fling down silver lire as if some
augury lay there.

I trace my past to need and lack;
I’ve mastered singing, transcending,

all you can do-- but still, the white mare
with immense dark eyes

I put down in June waits for me on
the edge of the inner field.

The way she looks back at me, tulip ears
forward, wide nostrils scenting the air

says, you will never be healed of your love
for this world.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2013

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