Hedges, Bird-Thick

the hedges, bird-thick, send out a
morning song, the chorus swelling,
dying off, then the soloist
perched at the tip of a branch
trills.  morning, again.

the flowers woven through a
random punctuation of purple,
red, blue,

the bare branches tied together
for kindling and she recalls
the yellow tape for the telex,
perforated, as it shuddered
through to Hungary, without
preamble, her slim words
telegraphic

the notes, too, written within
the cover of a blue book, the
faint lines of chickenscratch
resonating still, the postcard, too
giltedged, marking the place
in her book

waiting for the postman moving up
the civil step, swept clean, the
curtain atwitch as he
leaves his daily offering in
the black box, thick-stamped
missives, miniature portraits of
the historical, vegetable, mineral....

while cream-laid sheets,
heavy with cotton
wait for those sure strokes
of language, steady as the
rain pelting glass