Six and Twenty Blackbirds
Flecks of ink in bare trees, blackbirds
haunt the schoolyard. Swings hang red,
plastic-still over untroubled snow, silence.
We pretend we have answers, but blame,
like birds’ posturing racket, moves on, leaves
tail feathers to fall, land, make no difference.
Who are we to think we know the difference
between grief and greed? When blackbirds
fall from trees; like leaves
twirling, we cycle through green, gold, red.
In autumn’s dear dying, winter feels the blame,
retreats into silence.
Once I found eight feathered bodies in silence,
drowned in a tub of rainwater; no difference
to anyone but me, who took the blame.
Yet still I wonder about those blackbirds,
why eight small hearts, wild and red
as love, floated cold with sodden leaves.
Another headline, another shooter leaves
us shattered. Sorrow floods nights’ silence,
Christmas lights strung green and red.
We sing a song for difference,
for six and twenty blackbirds
incapable of blame.
Gray is the color of guns and blame,
green the sound of trees unfurling leaves,
absorbing shadows of the blackbirds.
Other birdsong will grace the silence;
reveal a world that forgives difference,
its heart cracked open, a blood-red
elegy for all we’ve lost. No red
apple on the desk; no more time for blame.
We seek to grasp the difference
between truth and fear. As leaves
feed off light, spin sanity from silence.
Above the school now, blackbirds
fly into memory like pressed red leaves.
Beyond blame, act from the healing of silence;
know that makes a difference to the blackbirds.
~~~
This poem came about a couple of months ago, after a member of my poetry critique group challenged us to try writing a sestina, which was the traditional verse category in the Oregon Poetry Association’s Spring 2013 Contest. I had never heard of a sestina let alone attempted to write one, but I decided to give it a shot, and, with encouragement from my group, I submitted it. I’m happy to report that it received an honorable mention.Yay! Feedback welcome, as always… thanks!
