Syracuse, NY 13210
Volume 12, 2012
A Certain Solace
He sang more sweetly when his mate
died. Well, that’s the singer’s fate:
absence and mourning. We relate,
But can do nothing. Some have found
a certain solace in the sound.
We lay him gently in the ground,
A tuft of feathers, silent, still.
The busy birds with mates now fill
his space, as something always will.
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