Poem of the Week

As it grows a little colder here in Winston-Salem, we hope you enjoy this beautiful transitional poem by Paula Meehan.

Mistle Thrush

The sycamore is weeping leaves of fire;

a maple stands in its own flaming lake;

shy birches isolate in yellow puddles.

You’d half expect these young trees to kick

their fallen skirts away. Bride? Bullfighter?

Dervish dancer rapt in a swirling cape?

When I went out an hour ago to muddle

through the leafdrift at my door, a flock

of mistle thrush descended—a deputation

from wingéd world with urgent and with fatal news:

Dying is simple. You breathe in, you breathe out, you breathe in,

you breathe out and you don’t breathe in again.

They acted like this was cause for celebration

—the first minor chord of my winter blues.

Paula Meehan, from “Suburb” in Dharmakaya

-Posted by Gigi