Poem: Early, early Red-winged
Posted on March 1, 2017 | Blog Category:
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Early, Early Red-winged
There must be a mistake.
It’s not March yet.
That black bird’s sitting on a back
field fence. No other one’s
in sight.
No friends or strays
who’ve left their
warmer place.
Maybe he never left.
So it could seem as if
he was first back
ahead of spring.
Although
spring arrives after
the frost’s out,
the mud gone.
Vermont’s fifth
season.
When the snow leaves
and a crocus is seen
blossoming on the south
side of a sun-drenched
house. He doesn’t know
what to make of his
loneliness.
I can tell its him
by his shoulder stripe.
How he throws his head
back as if he’s trying
to clear his throat
of snow.
What I think I’d do,
if I thought I was alone,
needing to raise a feeling
first, before the others appear,
days and months
from now. Filled with enough
sun, spring and summer.
Fall, when all their notes
have been sung.
Their throats raw with singing.
to their friends and relatives.
If, I’m not mistaken, who know
better than to be here
early. Like those budding
blossoms, apples-to-be
better left inside themselves.
Now it’s time to say,
if not to write. Red can
wait. And that white stripe
on her wing.
— Gary Margolis, Cornwall