Flight of Birds

  

Meaning and remeaning with the seasons,

This is their art. They follow

The Sun swelling in the East,

The grub swelling in the ooze.

They celebrate in vast carnival

Wind, star, storm and bird-wing

And the expense of themselves.

They plan nothing: bird-blood beats in them:

"We are and we are Yours."

 

But this thin line of words thrown out

Along the sky-tide of Your will,

Does it hold anything of You?

Yet because I must learn You

I shall outfly these birds.