after Elizabeth Turk’s Wing 5, 1998, Colorado Yule Marble
Near the winter solstice, amid a maple’s taciturn timber
here on my snow-marbled lawn,
sits a nest, like a sparrow once did.
And I wonder how Plato could believe
we’d fallen from once-heavenly flights,
unglued, as we’d supposedly become, from our glory.
This persevering nest seems to thrum
upon the stripped bones of solitude.
And a moon-silver feather, like a bow,
could play the air’s tender strings,
sliding, side to side,
as it reaches for land.
So tell me: What body,
whole or broken,
doesn’t have the soul of that song
swelling in its breasts?