I
he sits under the nightingale tree
waiting to catch
those notes which are heavy
enough to fall
into a resin bowl
pierces them
with steel needle
to make them real
strings them on
decimated vines
to garland
anyone who asks him
II
a lark is
unpicking his spirit
grasping it by
thread ends at his ear
drawing it like floss
up his throat and out the window
to drop it drifting on a cloud
we find him there
each day
eyes a little darker
frayed smile
hanging from one cheek
Copyright © 2018 by Ruth Asch.