He found a thrush's feather,
Dipped it in a meadow
And penned a sonnet.
He found a linnet's feather,
Dipped it in a stream
And penned a ghazal.
He found a blackbird's feather,
Dipped it in the sky
And penned a villanelle.
He found a swallow's feather,
Dipped it in the sunset
And penned a ballad.
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He found a skylark's feather,
Dipped it in starlight
And penned an ode.
He found an eagle's feather,
Dipped it in the sea
And penned an epic.
He found a barn owl's feather,
Dipped it in time
And penned an elegy.
Failing to find
A nightingale's feather,
He plucked one
From its wing.
That was the poem
That refused to sing.
Tim Cunningham’s sixth collection, The Lyrics to the Nightingale’s Song, was published recently by Revival Press
