The Difficulty Of Metaphor- B.T. Joy

The Difficulty Of Metaphor- 

you had the saddest eyes 
the way old forests go 
unvisited for years; the dipped arc 
of small, sharp birds among the cattle fields 
sometimes I think I can’t take 
many more metaphors
but you had the saddest eyes 
the way old forests go 
unvisited for years; the dipped arc 
of small, sharp birds among the cattle fields
happiness 
is a brief rain, and the way rain falls, 
the racing weather of life 
sometimes runs too quickly 
through the wind-tunnels of the heart 
the same mother-cow I saw 
through autumn and into winter 
is lying on her side now 
on the sunbathed grass 
between the others, 
stolid as walls of hair and muscle, 
little calves scatter 
staggering on their new legs 
away from the fenceposts where I pass; and into 
the deeper parts of the meadow 
so a swinging light turns 
into its own shadow; joy into 
its own dying 
hours in short greenness 
by the flank of the mother, under 
the shade of her like a tiny sheltered tree 
then fear, and certain knowledge, 
drives us deeper 
sometimes I think I can’t take 
many more metaphors
but you had the saddest eyes 
and passing the fields today 
with their sunlight and shuddering grass
I didn’t know the name 
of the small, sharp birds that weaved 
in and out of the wind 
and so I called them 
smudge of blue 
needles pulling
threads of spring feathers through the sheer 
water-coloured 
cloth of the air 
I called them your sad eyes 
and mine
because you will die soon 
because I 
will die soon 
because whole parts of us 
are already leaving the world 
and because we have 
not named a single thing 
in all this time 
that was gifted 
to us