Moving Day

The Last Sonnet From Peter's Hill

The black birds as they leave the world
Cry not a few names into the light--
Love, want, lack
Circle back to dress a hawthorn's hundred arms
Her flowers white
And bees suck the dew from their eyes

I no more choose when and where I fall
Than the leaves 
But if I had wings I'd touch every startled bud
For a hundred miles
And these dark hills would start fire
Behind me

Now I lay down my breath
A loaf of black bread for the flies