Is that you I hear singing?
Are you untangling your hair?
A Finch is matching you note for note.
She has taken a place somewhere high up,
out of sight, near the eaves of your house:
its bricks the meticulous graft of long-dead bees;
a petrified eerie – a catacomb
shuttered against the blue sky, the distant spring, against
the satisfaction of everything longed-for, rendered impossible,
but longed-for just the same.
Hold out. Anything else concedes.
There is no sign of rescue, that’s for sure.
It may well be you are forgotten,
All evidence points to that,
and for all we know
it might be permanent.
Know this then. Know that you still occupy
some small forgotten corner of sweetness.
Know this – you still have light. Know this –
The Finch is matching you note for note.
She is staying out the winter
somewhere high up, out of sight,
near the eaves of your house.