So, I'm going to read a last poem in this book, and then
two others.
This is to my husband Bob Hass, if you
have to spend three years in a pandemic with anyone,
can't recommend Bob Hass highly enough.
Really, really interesting.
Everything that comes out of his mouth, everything.
So do come Saturday and hear him talk about Miłosz,
because he's a brilliant gift.
"On Hearing the Golden-Crowned Sparrow"
Half-sweet squeal.
And oh, I wanted to say a shout-out
to Ken Lamberton, who's here.
Who's an amazing writer and he's the bird expert of Arizona.
So this golden crowned sparrow is also for Ken.
"On Hearing the Golden-crowned Sparrow"
Half sweet squeal.
Sounds like one hearing aid placed on the table.
A song knows
more than one way.
When hills catch fire,
this sparrow stays
or returns to the same bush each year
We loved each other
when we couldn't love ourselves,
our life a time-shaped miracle.
A new ash is covering the plants,
planet, plans,
the song's enchantment has a grainy hunger,
finishingly, seep-seep, nightly
finishing unearthbound, like a Saturday.
Its broad eyebrows crowd its crown.
When we are sad about poetry,
when the immortals can't
be heard because of fire,
this staggered sound.
Split
splendor
about our height, from the ground.
So that's how that book ends.