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,
that other
loneliness that is our vast capacity.
You thought it longed for filling.
It longs to sing.

                           Donna Henderson

Author: Donna C Henderson

Donna Henderson lives on the banks of the Deschutes River in Maupin, Oregon, where she also practices psychotherapy, poetry, music, Reiki, and teaches yoga, among other things.

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