Song

Goldfinches—they were—
not yellow leaves—four
drawn up
into the trees—a blur,
black-laced raw color
borne up.
I was thunked, word-stirred:
Sunlight, sunlight, bird.

Willow, widow, her-
self, my self once more
borne out
in the late light shorn
from summer forward
drawn out:
not yellow leaves—four
goldfinches they were.

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Copyright © 2011 Debra Kang Dean All rights reserved
from The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission