The day we buried Daddy–
it’s not that I was happy, but
I heard a robin singing to my
left, in a tree, somewhere

It’s not that I was happy, but my
head was in a tree–I was
somewhere else and singing with some
people, and my heart was on an
island in a tree.

The crux of a riddle in an
old tale, largesse of hands,
bark-gnarled words and green
love here.

My father could whistle a robin’s
call. I never heard him cry. He
liked his grey tweed cap, the
the clean green line of a
neatly trimmed hedge. I

sat on a limb like a bird that
day, and heard — Evensong.

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