Invisible Nightingale


Keats has nothing on this garden
My once bright eyes now blind—
        in flame from a tinder
                    spill of kindling.
Unseeing of his savior the Nightingale
object of his forlorn and pleading mind
my heart remains deflated and frail
empty of the song
                    through leaves, I cannot find.

He managed envy of the dryad’s happy lot.
At least he could envision happiness
        whereas I cannot.
Resigned to tumble and fail
in my deafened songlessness
searching for his

In this drowsy orchard dark
I await the sun in vain
to reveal its noonday arc
and shake from
        my heart
this fruitless stain
that has left its
                    binding mark.

(c) 2013