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Love is a Place
Birds and sacks
The throngs of sparrows sadden me
as they y swiftly above the elds
and clamour with sharp, harsh cries
over that well-ploughed scarcity.
They have never ceased to keep me company.
It barely matters until the end.
Nor have I been abandoned by the smell of sacks
that made a bed for me at the bottom of the cart
when I went as a child to the grape harvest.
We left before daybreak. The jolting
of the wheels and the strong, steady rhythm
of the well-shod hooves lulled me to sleep.
The sacks still serve as a mother for me.
Their smell has returned, thick and warm,
while I see how the frost shines as the sun comes
out
and the throngs of desperate sparrows
search for places where they may land
and sate a small, hard hunger.
They y, they y with me to the very end.