For Mr. LaMotte
With the downy feathers of
new beginnings
a nest is filled with life.
One young bird,
small body drowning in eyes
the size of swimming pools,
has wings too soft still to leave the nest.
So the bird is taught to sing and
it’s a bit like learning to
write poetry.
Her notes jumble
like words, the pieces of a puzzle
that don’t quite know
how they fit together yet.
When finally soft down is replaced,
feathers form unique patterns
on her wings, creating the
kind of simple detail a poet tries
to emulate, tries to capture in
the properness of words.
And there are proper words to
suit the bird, suit the way she
has already learned to sing and
now, will learn to fly.
But after the bird opens her wings and
takes off for good,
she realizes that she can no longer be caught
in the confines of a newborn song, of a beginner’s poem.
Poetry, she sings, can only be taught
by one who has always known how to fly,
the type of rare bird with
wings that have long
outflown the possibility of a
proper description.
With the downy feathers of
new beginnings
a nest is filled with life.
One young bird,
small body drowning in eyes
the size of swimming pools,
has wings too soft still to leave the nest.
So the bird is taught to sing and
it’s a bit like learning to
write poetry.
Her notes jumble
like words, the pieces of a puzzle
that don’t quite know
how they fit together yet.
When finally soft down is replaced,
feathers form unique patterns
on her wings, creating the
kind of simple detail a poet tries
to emulate, tries to capture in
the properness of words.
And there are proper words to
suit the bird, suit the way she
has already learned to sing and
now, will learn to fly.
But after the bird opens her wings and
takes off for good,
she realizes that she can no longer be caught
in the confines of a newborn song, of a beginner’s poem.
Poetry, she sings, can only be taught
by one who has always known how to fly,
the type of rare bird with
wings that have long
outflown the possibility of a
proper description.
