The Warbler

While about a happy bird, I do concede this seems a tad dark. I'm not one for Goth. When birding, and I see these little yellow sunny birds, to me they prophesy the coming of June.
Anyway... Garrison Keillor doesn't publish prologues.


The Warbler

My feet in snow,
  my head inclined,
From bare branches
  he marks Spring time,
I guess I love him
  for his magic
He songs belie
  my own are tragic

Though I’ll not climb
  so high above,
He sings the spark
  I’m in need of
For he’s the steel
  to my flint,
His striking there
  flares up a glint,
A spark ephemeral
  to spy,
It’s fleeting quicker
  than a sigh,

Again he chants
  from start to end,
I’ve no inner
  tinder to tend,
Yet I’ll return
  again in time
To watch him bloom 
  buds while he chimes