Dear Auduboness
       

The silence between us is measured
in dead birds.
                        I've taken my scarecrow
                        mask off to say
I'm sorry for this ending
with insects.
                        In our Scranton, the reflection
                        of the truth
is worth the dying for.
This morning,
                        the cardinals sang purdy-purdy
                        whoit-whoit
before flying into the glass echo
of themselves.
                        From the frost-tipped grass,
                        I count the blond
wisps of hair over the backs of your hands
through the window.
                        If I were the right kind
                        of lover, this poem
would have less death
in it—birds stunned,
                        not broken. But gloved
                        and shoveled, I raise
each body to your framed face, praying

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Copyright © 2015 Fritz Ward All rights reserved
from The Southeast Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission