On waking with another migraine
Day too bright to see the wavering trees,
the stink of unseen things too strong,
the pounding of hammers behind the eyes too loud,
to feel the touch of gentler heat on the skin.
I listen in the darkened room,
in the penumbra of shutters almost closed,
to a warbler singing quietly in the distant shade,
quietly and slowly, one note at a time,
falling at the phrase’s end, as if uncertain,
is the song complete, or is it not?
A pause, and he picks up the thread,
continues, with or without my opinion.
the hammers stilled,
the bird is singing still.