Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry |
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.When the female would pause
in her singingthe 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 sometimeswould 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 newburr-rip burr-rip.
Now the rooms are warmedby 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.