Thrush

Thrush

What whipping wind

has brought you here,

across a wending world,

making streams of angry seas

and steps of winding miles?

Softly, you’ve alighted, just beyond

my cautious reach,

gentle of composure,

yet with savagery of song,

wondering just which bygone age

I’ve conjured such a djinn,

a thousand other questions wet your eyes.

 

I cannot rescind

that whispered word which drew you near,

on the breeze you whirled,

then felt a calm among my ease,

wondering at my guiles,

and the nature of this bond.

Sing to me your queries, each,

I’ll try to lend them closure.

Though I fear you won’t belong,

I would make a sorry cage,

for nothing can I hold within,

see the open door beneath my guise.

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