Pentacost

Who knows what fills 
a sparrow's tiny chest

just before dawn?

Who knows why a smile alights

on your lips with wings

of faithful uncertainty?

Why this tear, condensed from the

distance between nameless stars,

suddenly blurs the green earth

with gratitude?

Don't tell. Use music.

Each of us must learn

from the ringing of broken things

in our own heart

that happiness has nothing to do

with being sure.

Feathered air descends to your belly

from the soft spot nested

on your crown.

Your own exhalation,

this silent tongue of fire.

No path led you here,

to this impermanence of mothwing

and wild anemone,

the mountain aster and Indian paint bush

seeded by a breeze beside the meandering

snow-melt stream.

The art of lingering.

The art of disappearing.

There is no death in this meadow.

The radiance in your chest contains me,

the radiance in my chest contains you,

in 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.

Don’t tell. Use music.

The Lord of the sparrow's breast

is listening.

When she sings, you must sing too:

"I Love, therefore I Am."

 
Photo: from BirdNote