Robert Ronnow


All Soft Feathers And Flight Muscles - Poem by Robert Ronnow

In the intermediate zone between heaven and hell
opinions and complaints, after much moaning, may
come to be held in common.

The way a flock of chickadees
moves through the woods, cheerfully,
each bird taking a turn on point.

All meaning must be found, here, in the middle zone,
notwithstanding fears that rend and own us,
of dying unknown.

A Spring day
the flycatcher broke its neck against our bay window
nothing changed.

I buried it, somewhat reverently, in a shallow grave.
No differently, really, than I would a man
who'd died suddenly.

Who'd left footprints in the snow
which became wild lily-of-the-valley, running pine
then snow again in time.

After long enmity
Sally hugs me, asks if I've been happy.
A moment in a year.

February, the light is long, more direct.
It's meaningless, repetitious
but held dear.

Topic(s) of this poem: bird, change, death, grave, heaven, man, snow, spring, time, woods


Poet's Notes about The Poem

www.ronnowpoetry.com

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Poem Edited: Monday, March 16, 2015


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