Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents

Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents

At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.

When the female would pause
in her singing

the male would pick up
her song...

There remain a dozen cages
but empty now.

The songbirds gone that once
talked loudly over each other,

like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.

When I was a small boy
a chickadee sometimes

would take to my head of curls
as if it were a nest,

and I would walk around,
the bird chirping,

my grandparents encouraging me
to join in its singing.

They were as good as starlings
at imitating others' songs,

delighting in all they heard,
the mastery of a new trill,

a new squee-squee,
a new chrrrrr, a new

burr-rip burr-rip.
Now the rooms are warmed

by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.

They have become photos
in a family album,

their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,

all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song.