A Bidding
In the plum’s high branches
a chaffinch
stunts among the new leaves.
All month he’s flown here,
all cock-a-hoop,
before the leaves were obvious,
when the tree was merely
a froth of blossom,
and before that, when the pink buds
were brinked to unwrap.
He arrived, it seems,
as soon as the sap
began to move again,
fast toward beauty, softness.
Before we knew for sure.
As if the tree had summoned him.
Lois Williams
Posted over on Cave Wall
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