Anagramming
—Sally Bliumis Dunn
Silent, the word
lifting off, only
its letters
in the white air
of the page, swirl,
rearrange,
then brighten
as though at dawn,
a flock of robins,
struggling to gather
in the wind;
anagram’s answer
lands on the lawn,
brown heads lowered
into thin green blades.
For burrowing worms,
they listen .
“Robins” by Leslie White, used with permission from the artist.
A Bird came down the Walk (328)
— Emily Dickinson
A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an Angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass—
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all around—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his Velvet Head
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, plashless as they swim.
