Bird at the Window
Beyond is a brightness
I am not equal to
Yet what I see
Turns into what I want,
And to bring nothing but this body
To pass through
The one thing between
Myself and what I crave,
Almost done, the world a ruin
Of leaves, winter at the throat,
My song over and over until
So familiar I can do
What I am about to do
While you who rise from the table
And walk from room to room
Will remember only the sound
Of what cast herself through
All that glass, instead of the song
That was sung until finally
You would ask to know more.
–Sophie Cabot Black, Poetry (June 2008)
