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Yesternight heard the song of the Blackbird
playing bittersweet-ness through the bell of a shimmering horn
in hosts of hundred-colored tones.
In the tones you could hear sacred stories.
You could hear Mr. Davis was smiling his ironic smile at life.
Feeling no shame, though feeling comes with fear,
and fear mingles with trust in what may be a dream.
But still, it seemed to him he'd traveled down the path
of hope and loss and work and pain
and all that's straining
to become itself in time for a breath
(before the death of sound).
Taking hold of a gift from the gods,
measuring odds,
making love to a sound with a voice of its own.
May the tone never end.
Amen
