For Robert Ward
All yesterday, on the hedgerow
behind our home, a male cardinal,
in bold tones, kept announcing:
Pretty, pretty, pretty. I could not
condemn it, nor say it was wrong.
How could I? when I could only trust
its vision through its song,
the only one I think it knows:
Pretty, pretty, pretty, the only one
which captured my heart/ mind,
long after it had flown:
Pretty, pretty, pretty. And either
it was right, or I was wrong:
Pretty, pretty, pretty. I am
unfamiliar with all that we must learn,
as to how the jay squawked and
wildly gestured during its term.
The weeds aren't troubled
by the whirlwind's temper: It's good
to be close to the ground.