Carl Newlen

Finch

- July 10, 2009, 3:12 pm | Poetry

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Last May near Beaver Creek,
I studied a yellow finch
resting on a limb.

Bloom, spring fruit,
small and bright she sat,
swaying with the leaves.

I thought it would be sad
if she wanted to be a leaf,
to make its sound and shade,
to wait for one flight
in the blush of Autumn,
pressed between the pages
of a book.

It would be sad
to watch her hold tight
the bough, release
her wings to the wind,
feathers wet from rain.

It would be sad
if in the air she sings
A leaf, a leaf,
and dies wanting.

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