The calendrical blossoms under which I stand are stilled blue.
Wherever could I be but in the song birds’ lives.
Forever they have sung me to sleep and awoken my grief.
Never have they failed me.
This evening I listen.
To the tiniest quarks.
In shrubbery and sky.
Highlight over my life.
Do they reckon?
Do they thrall?
Do they care?
I live ad nausea.
To have no time to care or sail?
I have no time and yet I do care.
For every atom that fails there is a song bird.
Singing to me for ever and ever until I return the compliment.
How many have passed before me that I am?
How many have passed away that I would be?
How many are we?
Infinite and ubiquitous and never atomised
When I sleep awake under the still falling petals of the blue tree.