Certainty

The river is moving.  
The blackbird must be flying.
         — Wallace Stevens

          I

Winged creatures crash the corridors of spring
And call in kin from everywhere to sing
A thousand songs, all with the same refrain:
“This is our season, and we shall remain.”
At first their sound is harsh and yet in time
They bring an easy rhythm and a rhyme
To every willing ear, a melody
That fills the vernal air with “Certainty!”

And all the birds that follow share the sound
And make their own to mark their breeding ground,
Assuring anyone who comes around:
“This is our world, make note of it, and let
The record clearly show, let it be said
That every spring begins with black and red.”

         II

“— Let there be no doubt!  This is our place
and time.  We have no vagaries to chase,
no hills to climb, no valleys to endure,
no days to dream, no nights to wonder.  Here
we stand, as sure as night begins the day
and sunlight melts the snow, and here we stay;
as sure as winter ends with spring, we take
the dormant fields and sing the world awake.

Tomorrow is for such wanderers and fools
who set out from their churches and their schools
in search of something more, but in their souls
they struggle over what they want to see
and what the future holds for them.  But we
remain, reminding them of Certainty!”