d i a r y j o u r n a l s w r i t i n g s i l l u m i n a t i o n s i l l u s t r a t i o n s w e l c o m e

 

< Back Writings by Tim Girvin
the transparent barrier

Against glass --
that fluttering noise,
like the beating of
feathers at the broiling
embers, in a tea ceremony:

Just that sound, that
I heard once,
seconds only -- in time,
sitting there
in Kyoto.

But it is a hummingbird
that's come into my
house, trying to
leave, through glass:
I fret, the feathers

Like little emeralds,
falling to the faded
kilim -- the brilliant
new, against threads,
sun bleached in respite.

Getting out, or coming
in -- we see our way
but we cannot get through;
and bang away, like
hummingbirds, flickering

Our wings, battering
the panes of that
which holds us in place,
against movement:
in any way, ever.

This bird calms
for a moment --
holding it, heart
vibrating like a
tiny clockwork

It pauses, in
reflection, then
flares away, a fleet
bundle of gems
and, like me, sometimes,

Looks back, to
see where it was,
when it was held
by nothing
of consequence.

(Originally sent: April 04, 2004)

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