A poem for June, and for grieving.
some dusk to the varied thrush
keening its single long, cool note.
This is what the thrush has waited for all day:
the busy light leaving,
shadows slipping home from their exile.
For the spacious
silence that hears it, answers.
Lean ecstasy you might have thought
Listen then to your own,
loneliness that is our vast capacity.
You thought it longed for filling.
It longs to sing.