Thursday, August 9, 2007
a cardinal perched at the window
cocking its head to look at me
I suppose you could say
his presence was a sign
his red boldness hiding a fortune
Or perhaps it is less than extraordinary
a common action, not nearly worth all this trouble.
Pay attention to this poem.
It is not about a bird,
but the way you look at the morning without looking into it,
as if it weren’t the most fascinating thing,
as if you see it everyday
a moment so full of possibility and miracle,
the thought of a bold red cardinal must have seemed absurd.
And yet. There must be million of moments in a mind.
How could you ever remember a brief encounter with one morning?
or a single line of a poem?