White-Eyes
By Mary Oliver
In winter
all the singing is in
the
tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among
the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he
has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But
his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he
makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering
beak
tucked
in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which
he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like
stars, or the feathers
of
some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that
has turned itself
into snow.
Source: Poetry (Poetry
Foundation, 2002)
