Like the Warbler

“I dare not eat it, though I starve,—
My poignant luxury….”

~ Emily Dickinson

So clear, it almost hurts: so blue, so green—
that line hurtling into the distance and pulling

like a thick brush-stroke everything that lives
at ground-level: that’s how you’ve lifted me,

little chipped stone that’s traveled
from some far tributary. And the air

is cold, but the heavy clapper sounds the notes
of the bell like a heart hollowed for just this

purpose. But oh, what the bird sings is sweet-
sweet-sweet. And all these bitter years,

what releases is the same each time: mouth
like the warbler that has learned your name.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.