Menu

Poetry

There was a man who filmed
a wild bird perched lightly
on his knee, an eastern phoebe,
and how I wish it had been me
to receive a little sign
the tide might turn, shift.
Think my rod, my staff, the craft
of conjuring a little belief,
a field of grass, a clear horizon line.
Goodness is not the key,
but comfort and small things
that land softly, stun the breath,
let you have a thrill just long enough
where the knee quivers,
and a bird shifts accordingly.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Pin It on Pinterest