Classic Poem

Well, the blackbirds came back. . . .
We knew they would. Still —
seven months at a crack —
and winds can blow ill.

We've known those in less
interval could forget
name, number, address. . . .
How sad to admit

there was mockery almost
in the Fragmites grass
with a blackbird aboast
on every blade, as,

tails tucked underneath,
they teetered and chirred,
simply keeping the faith
without knowing the word.