Bluebell or cornflower, it’s all the one
to the cherry tree with its many doors
opening, hour by hour, on one colour
as rooms with forgetful walls might do,
their layers of paint and antique paper
golden with birds and golden flowers,
hunkering under a whim of novelty.
By such means does the day
take the trouble to explain how
the blackbird in the cherry tree
makes it his business to assemble
in its simple branches a home
one takes for an inside world
crowded with golden songs.
By such means do I slip myself
into the ink of assembled flowers,
lavender and forget-me-not,
sea-holly and allium all the one
to the cherry tree, its papery blossom
and the blackbird in my sky-blue study
making bits of song out of his day.