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Young, George, 1938- / Bird of paradise: poetry
(2011)

Wings,   p. 17


Page 17

Wings
A poem is not a bird until it flies in the mind.
And a poem about wonder may not fly at all
if the mind is weakened by sickness, cold, lack of love, hunger.
It may just crouch down with the frost-
ruined daffodils by the fence.
Yet wonder is sometimes the last thing to go.
Take a pale-purple, freezing evening in December
when an old man, near the end, in Central Park, looks up
and sees a Great Blue Heron lift off from the icy reeds
and flap away through the black bones of bare trees.
17


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