Bird
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
Pablo Neruda
3 comments:
you know i do love birds who write poetry ;) and pablo neruda too. this was a great poem to read as i watch the sunrise here this morning dear!
XO
What a lovely bird!
My mother has spent most of her adult life painting birds. I think there's something poetic in that choice of occupation. And I wish I were so singleminded about my career. But I'm too scattered. I'm more of a hummingbird, flitting from flower to flower.
So captivating. Vibrant and frail at the same time. Birds are magical.
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