Mockingbird III
Songs, returned
to their space
within the sphere of
movement, the patterns inscribed
as if to touch the face of every
wind: here one moment, then
gone. This quickness delights us.
How, then, do we so often forget
those things we share? Night
comes and goes to another’s
phrase, yet each note is so precisely
placed, so carefully rendered
that we hear only the voice, not its source.
* * *
Another piece from the 80s. This first appeared here in March 2015, and would likely be a much longer poem if I were to write it today.
O at the Edges 
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Thank you.
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I love it as is, Bob – but what a great thought, using it as a ladder to the you of now, what might this poem evolve into?
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I’ve revised a few poems from those days, but in general am happier leaving them alone and working on new pieces. But there are several unfinished poems that I may turn to someday, if only to see what might come of them.
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Yes! Gets the juices going at least!
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