Poetry / If Birds Were to Sing

If birds were to sing
this false spring when
jonquils mistakenly
bloom in January

If birds' song die
like daffodils
locked in ice and my
heart no longer breaks
 

If my words weep
as the March wind blows
and April rain’s
spent on unplanted soil
 

If my memory’s
selectively dim
and grim age intrudes
with hints of frailty
 

If there’s no point
and none to invent:
imagination
dry, shriveled, past
 

If tears never come
and emotion is
absent, or false and
feeling quietly lost
 

If the long winter’s
night brings but wakefulness
and dread: the graves of
my mind open instead
 

If the dreams of the day
erupt though supposedly dead
and time does not die
though existence is not kind
 

Then I will not sing
nor attempt to sing
but chant slowly this
dirge for this spring
and it’s good-bye

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