Pentacost

Who knows what fills

a sparrow's tiny chest

at dawn?

Who knows why a smile
alights on your lips with wings

of faithful uncertainty?

Or why this tear, condensed

from the distance between nameless stars,

suddenly blurs green earth

with gratitude?

Don't tell. Use music.

Each of us must learn

from the ringing of broken things

in the heart that happiness

has nothing to do with being sure.

Feathered air descends upon your breastbone

from the soft spot nested on your crown.

Your exhalation,

A silent tongue of fire.

No path led you here

to this impermanence of mothwing

and wild anemone,

mountain aster and Indian paint bush

seeded by breezes beside

a meandering snow-melt stream.

The art of lingering.

The art of disappearing.
Don't tell. Use music.

There is no death in this meadow.

A radiance in your chest contains me.

A radiance in my chest contains you.

We are a circle with so many centers

even Christ gets dizzy.

His work is bewilderment, not salvation,

a dance of scarlet poppies conquering

the mind of warrior and artist alike

with invincible softness.

The Lord of the sparrow's breast

is listening.

When she sings, you must sing too:

"I Love, therefore I Am."

 
Photo: from BirdNote