The Wren

The tiny wren is not too reticent.
Boldly, he claims his need to be content
With nothing less than his own mastery
Of song. The trills his urgency sets free,
Having surpassed their given form, outstrip
All reasoning, or parity. The grip
Exceeds the hand: the draft the cup or glass.
The height is not distance from the dewy grass.
Not greater is the wren than his brief song,
Its tune’s been sung by early wrens for long,
But this uncommon wren sings of our flight,
Fulfills its promise, mindful of the night.
No rubbish from a shrunken guilty thing
Whenever themes are given vital wing.
The virtuoso wren has song in spate.
Each April new if wren and song will mate.