Much fabled, sweet
bird of youth,
when did you fly away
desert my withered garden?
Desolate hangs the willow;
sheds its yellowed leaves
as the wind blows puff-ball seeds
in through my window...
to float on stale and stagnant air
along the chipped and wormy wainscot
to lodge behind the rocking chair
that mocks me with its stillness.
Shall I glimpse you again, sitting
on some distant tree where verdant
grows the celandine; or are you gone
to warmer climes, where frost
won’t coat the dustbin lids
or the Monday morning