by P. G. Karamesines

Low morning, and low light.
Past years’ leaves edge under the ivy.
A brown thrush
Mentions the flowering pear
And the box turtles coupling
In the grey shade of white oaks.
The moss is warm; the air, fern moist;
A bright fox
Walks in the stream.
The thrush tells it,
Leaping from one branch to another,
Going down deeper into the greenbriar.

3 thoughts on “Thrush”

  1. This is an old poem from when I still lived under the influence of my Virginia years. It was published somewhere but I can’t think of where.

    I think of this poem as a threshold poem, a poem that marks an entryway into another level of perception.


  2. Maybe, rather than a threshold poem, it’s a thrushold poem.


    I suppose it could be a Romantic poem lacking its “Truth is beauty, beauty truth” punchline.


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