Bird on a Bough

[Caleb Murdock]

Bird on a Bough (revised)

Dear, save your words until the day.
    Let us let go of the war
that cleaves us from our memories;
    just hold me, as before.

The truth and its prerogative
    to hear its perfect sound
may yet be stayed; and if, in this
    delay, reprieve is found,

other wayward hearts await
    for truth to tear asunder.

Words, they kill, they desecrate,
    they confiscate our wonder;
but when has man been true, or even
    once ceased to blunder

from his reckless gait?  Hush now,
    a bird sings from the bough.
Tonight, his song is our shepherd,
    if we can so allow.

It speaks nothing and asks nothing,
    so hold me, hold me now.

Don't ask me why, but when I wrote this poem, I was imagining a 19th-century setting in the woods with a cabin.  Consequently, the poem has an old-fashioned flavor, but I'm satisfied with that.

Thank you.