The goldfinch in his spring, his gladsome prime,
Curvets and dives in the bright fields of air.
He sports high in the hawthorn and the lime.
He sings, while winging, songs joyous and rare.
In June the elm seeds, an enticement rich,
Have drawn him, feathered miracle, to feed.
From every pool deep in each greenwood niche
He dips his beak to taste the rainy mead.
In the last lazy reaches of July
He settles down, with the green wife he's wooed,
In nested thistledown. Don't ask me why
He chooses now to nourish a full brood.
Perhaps because he's brave or good and bored
He strives to strive with Nature or the Lord.
Copyright 1995 Anissa Nedzel Gage
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