Infected with Harmony

In the asylum of a mountain home
where no one lives near enough to hear
the singing, where the sun rises over
the mountains and turns the heavy dew silver:
this is the place the birds fell ill with song.

The tea kettle whistles, and a log
on the fire makes the highest pitched whine
these ears can hear. The snow geese didn't come
this year to rest in the hay field on their way
north. They could have helped fight the harmony.

The hay, close-cropped since fall, looks too neat now.
The balance between balance and imbalance
nears perfection: one dead partridge on the road-
side, the fiddleheads growing like greenhorns.
These last cold nights slaughter the early bugs.

This beautiful morning, the disorder's
symptoms manifest themselves as movement
fitting for a dance: barefoot to the stove,
twirling to the woodbox, limp hands rising
into grace as the untucked shirt tails rise.

Let this go on forever, this early
day doomed to disappear when the grass dries.
Let pity for the sick fall away, petal
after petal till the daisy's button
remains, and birds sing conflicting refrains.