Why so sad? To which the other turned toward the lake.
—-Blue glaze-like sky. Cobalt with sun seams. Like ceramic,
lately thrown. That’s not it. Wind in the miniature crab.
—-And a thousand tiny apples, scrubbed with first dew, shaking
and dripping, each the size of a wren’s heart. That’s
—-not it. No, after it has sung. In alarm. Trying to attract.
Flown now into another yard, another tree. What do you
—-mean sorrow is unsafe when it is real sorrow. Hear them
singing? They are gone. You can still hear them singing.
David Baker’s latest book of poems is Whale Fall (Norton). He lives in Granville, Ohio.
