A Blackbird Does Not Ask the Leaves
I stand before a statue of the Virgin Mary,
her feet upon a serpent encircling a globe.
On the narrow ground behind her, a bench,
and further, a steep forest.
Ghosts of the medieval gallows linger;
in the overrun cemetery, broken graves.
The statue, on its plinth, is enclosed by a low fence.
A road borders the forest, as do birch trees.
I hear the call of a bird, then rustling:
a blackbird, turning dry beech leaves over,
digging its beak into the deep layers.
I walk into the shadowed way,
canopies of branches and high-pitched cries
overhead. The edge, as always, unclear,
sometimes porous, selectively;
at other times, men are beaten back
without a hearing. It is as if I am drawn
into another time.
I know that I must enter the forest to understand,
that I am not separate,
that the leaves on the earth are not just still.
A crescent moon is always the moon;
to forget all parts of who we are is loss.
I do not need to kneel before an altar
to feel; the blackbird does not ask the leaves
for an answer.