Come, Lord, and lift the fallen bird
Abandoned on the ground;
The soul bereft and longing so
To have the lost be found…
Before the movers came,
we found the sparrows’ nest
concealed inside the chive
plant on the patio.
And the bald chicks there
calling, unfledged, undone.
Love, the mean days collecting
scored us, and hourly
such years: we feel too much
assembling what our world
got wrong; black artery
of wires, branched hazard, rat
stinking in the beams. Wrong as
your mattress on the floor,
walls where the only stud
sinks into a metal grief.
Take this distance as you go,
Love, which is my faith, tedious,
steady, like scraping gum
from a shoe. Strong as a cobweb,
I give you this durable string.
Because I remember you:
who saves the sparrows;
the chicks calling and calling
and you who won’t forget them;
have seen the ghost who rents
your eyes dissolve when
your face turns to the light.
Today, I watched the other birds
who lived this winter
peppering our tulip tree. The buds’
tough seams begin to crack.
Ordinary. No sign to read, I know.
But while we breathe, we hope.
epigraph from “Come Lord And Lift,” by T. Merrill
