Robert Francis

Waxwings

Four Tao philosophers as cedar waxwings
chat on a February berry bush
in sun, and I am one.
 
Such merriment and such sobriety—
the small wild fruit on the tall stalk—
was this not always my true style?
 
Above an elegance of snow, beneath
a silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four
birds. Can you mistake us?
 
To sun, to feast, and to converse
and all together—for this I have abandoned
all my other lives.
 
 
Submitted by Larry Bole
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