We are not moved by intellect alone
But alone our power is to be moved—
So the autumn-fat starling on the stone
Path has just now, speckled in color, proved:
The life I’d learned to say I’ve grown to hate
Extends to me its love—and greedy as
I have become, I gather to my plate
Its fruit and meat and think all that it has

To do to be persuasive is to be:
Its fight with none is also not with me.
The red leaves being gathered by the wind
Sink into the ocean by which the world’s rimmed,
And I sit thick in my privilege, my suffering.
Sure, the bird dances, but what will winter bring?

D. ERIC PARKISON received his MA in English from the University of Rochester. He received his MFA in Poetry from Boston University. His poetry has appeared in Zyzzyva, American Chordata, Hawk & Whippoorwill and Crab Creek Review, among others. Poems are forthcoming in Antigonish Review. He lives in Lynn, MA.