Upon the autumn's lighted day,

Perched upon my view, I say,

Singing songing was he then,

Ringing autumn's leaves away.

 

Standing sturdy on the tree,

The tree, to me, still sound asleep,

But waking all through his beak,

clearly,

Singing songing wasn't he then,

Still ringing Autumn's ghosts away from me.

 

His feathered flap had paid crooked fee,

Turning, yearning to say to me

"My wing is flawed, but my chirper fine,

for flying by does not come free."

 

The bird found home upon my shoulder,

Fearing flightless growing older

His heavy wing then growing colder,

Thoughts of honest thoughts I then told,

 

"Surely I would help, upon your fiery yelp,

had I had a wing to lend your flight that you once felt."

 

My icy touch upon his arm,

Trying, dying not to harm,

For if I heal his broken wing

Flying, flying will he far.

 

The bird, he peeped, I know it was he,

For favor did he ask of me.

 

"Pardon my peep,

if you'll be so neat,

but my tears I'd love a dove to keep,

so gentle would you be to keep inside my peeping weep?"

 

"Oh, weeping peeper,

who perched upon my arm did he,

whose peeps inside he'd like to keep,

who yearns to flee, and flee will he,

upon repair of broken wing,

thankful for it will he be,

despite what weeping peeps and peeping weeps

I may not care to keep!"

 

And so I repaired his flightless feathers

Without a weeping peep from he.

 

Then he, the bird, did something neat,

He leaped onto my paper sheet,

Which words of mine it did reap,

Thoughts into the world to seep,

He, the bird, began to read:

 

"Come to me, oh fleeting muse,

My perishing soul remains confused,

The void in place of space you used,

Of my death, it is accused."

 

And he, the bird, did something forthright;

He took my pen and began to write.

With his newborn wing of might,

He did indite

What I could only wish to write.

 

Words as light as floating chirps,

Ones that must only come from birds,

Fell onto my paper sheet,

The most heavenly I had ever heard.

 

Still words as heavy as a boulder,

From the bird once on my shoulder,

Piercing as a bird's chirp,

Impaled the world as it grew older and colder.

 

"How can you, a bird, do so?

Are words just thoughts that all birds know?

You came to me with broken wing

and piercing, piercing weeping peep

and stop you won't until you sink my soul so low.

 

Here you stand upon my desk

conjuring words to build your nest,

my humble world they do infest.

I ceased my work to fix your breast,

lest you press again and sing your jest!

What of mine will you lay hold of next?”

 

Then he, the bird, upheld his wing,

The string with which the sky would sing,

Upon his wave to say goodbye,

He’d rest upon the wind beneath.

 

His feathery flight as light as day,

The wind so carried him away,

Back to the branch on which he’d perched,

At the waking of this autumn’s lighted day.

 

And there he sat like our quarrel did fade,

Perched upon my view, I say,

Singing songing was he then,

Ringing autumn's leaves away.