To The Thrush Poem by Patti Trimble

TO THE THRUSH

In your place
I would have bones filled with air,
a beak to pull the work of hands,
a head I turn entirely
to see the whole of things.

Each season
I would shape a new home,
my wing stirring the sky—
sit until I find myself
in service of new life.

Tibetans say to build five homes
and abandon them
is how we learn to fly.

In your place
I would suffer impermanence
with irrepressible singing.