Still the Birds Sing
on the branch,
as a gentle breeze ruffles the trees,
their heart-shaped leaves wriggling in the sun.
Time stills, and sad songs wail mournfully,
but still the birds sing.
Death demands attention daily in the headlines.
This is the revelation:
the deep blue sky punctuates puffs of white,
violin notes float in the wind,
and graceful wings soar, outstretched.
The breeze caresses your face.
This is a love song.
If you turn the abyss upside-down,
it is vast, open sky.
Even starlight shines.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020