Monday, March 28, 2016


I will pour out my spirit upon every sort of flesh

                                          Acts 2:17

As the sky lightens

an hour before the sun bleeds

on a wide beam of horizon,

there's a singular bird.


Small and metrical,

far from her choir.


The gift of My Father

trebled in the wild throat

of a scrub wren.


She sings among leaves

of the Forsythia. And like the bush

veiled in  faint cobwebs

or  pages of an Old Book --


some of her feathers

are dusty yellow, worn

and thumbed by a soft wind.

No comments: