The origami birds will not fly south.
The red birds of the maple,
the yellow sparrows of the gingko,
the hummingbirds of the honey locusts.
They will huddle like a brilliant blanket
on the ground and then be gone.
In a few weeks there will be
a hush under the trees.
The charwomen of the winter
will bring buckets and brooms
and clean the bushes and branches.
The Transvaal of the heavens
will stretch to the endless distance
in the sky, and we will see
flocks of ducks and geese
fade in the blue.
Clouds of songbirds and starlings
will dissolve in the crematory of the light
and I will look about
standing in the wind
like a shadow watching surf,
alone and cold.
Hear a different music in the trees
and become the incarnation
of the world’s change.
In the universe there are endless dunes
of winter and spring,
life and death,
transformation and passing.
And here and there,
traffic,
cafes,
songs and people
gathering,
themselves the origami of love,
comedy,
and tears,
old and new,
breathlessly beautiful
and sacred.