Blackbird, all the notes you use
weave whirling, twirling curlicues;
notes like little birds that fly
through ear and heart like air and sky.
On a blackboard, in bright chalks,
I’d try to draw the words you talk
as fireworks and flower stems
with rose petals and flames on them.
Blackbird, your trills fill my head
like fancy frills and golden thread.
It’s little wonder you adorn,
with your bright song, each spring time morn.