Is it a wish -- that tiny tin whistle Out on a leafless branch throwing a missile, Wrapped in a dip and a lift, like a bow Of rain turned somersault, curve down below: Tip-dip-tipping a phrase and a blow, Releasing a flute in a piccolo, And striking an ear with a short, thin dart, Pinning a secret one hides in a heart? If it isn't a wish, why does it tarry? If it wasn't fulfilled, how far did it carry? Was it too stunted to be sentimental? Or much too local to be continental? |