Xuanhu

In my cellar of black wings,
All the little birds who died

In my awareness, in ways
That came to my attention,

Scruffy-headed, beady-eyed,
Lend their feathers to the ghosts

Who grow giant remiges
And rustle, shadow angels,

Overcrowded in the foxed
And mildewed books of the mind.

It’s not the end of a life,
Large or small, that matters most,

It’s that lives end, end at all,
The ending of all living

That keeps life going, that sings
Sweetly in the morning light,

Flying toward a clear sky,
Shining and airless by night.