it was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
the day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
when i returned from so many journeys,
i stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
i saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above i saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
i saw it all from my green sky.
i had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
