by John Muro
The profound sadness
and abbreviated burst
of sorrow still haunt
and hobble me. Seems
a resigned address,
a lost soul wanting
or a sweeter misery
unknown to thrush.
It is the anxious
rise and quick descent
that captures the ear,
an augury that seems
to hold the moment
in gentle harness
and then drifts clear
of the season’s promise.
Hard not to hear
the loud lament
or slush in pitch;
sustains a seamless,
wind-born moment,
ushered from a clear
note that stitches
hope to grieving.
And yet, I wish
for no other sound
than this, or place –
the brief requiem
and redeeming grace
that falls to ground
in sweet anguish –
both arriving and leaving.