Thrasher's Call

Cheerrupper, chirrupper, sing from the trees; lend me your bird’s-eye view; sing me and wing me aloft on the breeze, rise me in hardship, glide me in ease, lift me on joy-winds my mind seldom sees, and tell me that all of it’s true.

Scurry-er, hurry-er, steady your tail, and show me where hope is laid; trace me the steps of your wood-weaving trail, number the acorns you’ve scattered like hail, the conclaves of forests that grew without fail, where your best-laid of plans were remade.

Susurrate, truster-ate, branches and roots, stretch to the ends of the earth; draw up its wells to my soul’s withered fruits, whisper in depths of unmoved absolutes: the harvest of love from our trodden-down shoots, and the dawn of the wedding-feast’s mirth.