Of birdsong caliber

Of birdsong caliber                                                                                     
 
If ever this poetry could touch the dulcet chirruping of birdsong,
each word’s import would become superfluous to its charm.
 
Nonsense syllables would be at its heart,
the gist of a riddle giving everyone a good laugh; 
 
each poem an ornament hung from the neck, 
a stud in the lobe of an ear, a beauty that speaks for itself
 
rather than this old hair shirt cut to fit, dutifully gilding
the dissonance and duplicity of both words and thought.
 
This birdsong poetry would then take flight
and I would follow, no longer grounded
 
by my inarticulacy, ignorance and desire.
Truth and beauty would appear together onstage,
 
in pure harmony singing the story of existence –
a love song without meaning beyond the telling of the tale,
 
the love that creates and sustains it
and the love of which it is constructed.
 
O child of God, if ever you are able to write poems
of birdsong caliber, you will have no need for words.