songbird story

I. THE SCENE

in the name of callous grace,

my hardened hands joined in prayer,

the water ebbs and flows in tides.

windy mornings paint the sky,

neon brushstrokes on a rough draft sunrise,

as the trees sing their hymns - push and pull.

II. THE SONG

i was born to inhabit this body:

my silhouette the product of rooted muscles, careful grooming.

i was made for long looks, yearning gazes,

for intense inspection but never complete satisfaction-

i was born to grow,

to watch everything i have ever loved

change and leave and go.

III. THE SIGNS

in deep tangles of seaweed and backwoods rope

i cry to the presence in the sky and beg,

please give me a sign.

the morning is quiet, the air ricochets with cliches

and i figure i’m a moon but never this moon,

i’m a star but not one from this point of view.

i matter but not in terms of atoms or quarks,

i’m present as the package of promise at my door.