At the top of this tree, so so heavy with blackbirds, a secret moment draws
                    us near. Summer isn’t blackbird season.

                    They don’t see the others waiting for a signal to sound above the other chords:
                    take off, rise—too high or too grave for you to hear.

                    Now they grow so silent. Now the quick breath of early flight.
                    Oh, look now: they’re gone.

                    That signal: like a fist. Recoil from its easy touch;
                    steel against the impact. Steel cheek and chest and hip.

                    Fall out of that love.

                    It’s true: I was not as strong as I would want. Maybe I was not so confident.
                    I listened, listened, listened for the call.

                    Oh, my dearest girl:
                    Learn to lift yourself above that tree.

©2008 Dr. Lacy M. Johnson All Rights Reserved.