Apology For Birding
I lose all sense of time, forget all thought of place,
it matters not what I have done or failed to do,
I am at peace when in the company of birds.
And so I come with glass and book to ask if you
will join another trek. I have no other words
to justify my need. I only plead your grace.
Weave me songs of joy and sorrow–
weave me hope to hold tomorrow–
weave the warmth of golden sunlight–
weave the chill of winter’s long night.
I shall clothe me with your weaving–
I shall feast upon your singing–
Joy shall drain the cup of sorrow–
Night shall soon become Tomorrow.
I Am A Drum
I am a drum. Upon my life
the Master plays. Fierce joy, harsh strife,
cruel grief draws tight the skin–a rune
to test the sounding of the tune.
Though stretched and taunt, I do not break,
but sound more clear the joyful ache
of love. I am a drum drawn taut.
His stroked make notes distinct to haunt
my darkest night and dullest days.
Draw taunt the slack and play your lays.
(On Apology For Birding, I have dragged my poor wife through salt marshes, sewer treatment plants, and down dusty trails in pursuit of avian joy. She has gone along willingly although birding is not her thing. This poem was an attempt to express my appreciation.)