Blackbird

Blackbird, you come to my window every evening,
To listen to the sound that is my heavy breathing.
You put a wing up to the sun,
And said the world is sleeping.

But Blackbird what of the Sun & the Moon,
What of this morning that has come too soon?
Do not tell me of white trees in September,
Do not tell me of fast cars in June.

Do not fix my head, or begin to mend my errors,
And do not teach my tongue in forgetful forevers,
That when my lover left, he left hope behind,
And the heart endures what the heart endeavors.

And if you must sing to me, sing me the blues,
Sing me the sadder of the golden tunes,
And if you are to fix me, Blackbird,
Make me the object of another man's muse.

So leave me your feathers,
Blackbird, on my window sill,
And I'll write that epic letter,
the one to my lover,
And have it laden with goodwill.

But promise me this, with my letter when you roam,
You'll leave me behind a heart-shaped stone,
One I can cradle and caress,
Till you somehow bring me, my lover home.