Creation’s Refrain
(“We know that the whole world has been crying. It has had much pain until now.” Romans 8:22)
In the moment of lingering silence, waiting for the sun,
buds yawn toward wakefulness, birds spread their wings
prepared to leave their nests to make their morning meetings
on lawns and leaves.
buds yawn toward wakefulness, birds spread their wings
prepared to leave their nests to make their morning meetings
on lawns and leaves.
Roses that slept through winter and March
sprout like covered heads removing quilts that
covered their slumber. Partially dead for a season,
they fumble less for their beauty than we do
for lightswitches hoping renewed coffee brewed.
sprout like covered heads removing quilts that
covered their slumber. Partially dead for a season,
they fumble less for their beauty than we do
for lightswitches hoping renewed coffee brewed.
Mourning Doves call, their mates answer the dawn together
after full night silence, they are make-ready, their song sounds lonely
though they may nest in the same-place year after year.
Black Birds crack open the sod with one dark-eye guarding,
ready to noise the intruder within its vista.
Blue Jays scour the lawn and leaves, picking up bunting
in their beaks for the perfect nursery décor, their
young brood waiting.
after full night silence, they are make-ready, their song sounds lonely
though they may nest in the same-place year after year.
Black Birds crack open the sod with one dark-eye guarding,
ready to noise the intruder within its vista.
Blue Jays scour the lawn and leaves, picking up bunting
in their beaks for the perfect nursery décor, their
young brood waiting.
But there is a moment, a minute, maybe as much as
a half-hour predawn
where the only sound is the sun scratching the horizon
to pull itself up to vertical and start the song
sung for centuries and newly composed
every next rotation upon the planet that
cannot
complete the universe with verse and measure.
a half-hour predawn
where the only sound is the sun scratching the horizon
to pull itself up to vertical and start the song
sung for centuries and newly composed
every next rotation upon the planet that
cannot
complete the universe with verse and measure.
Like a castaway alone on a hidden island,
the days are vibrant with improvised colors
dancing to unfretted music sliding between
half-steps. It is a song, if we forget we are alone,
we would join every morning with the sunrise.
the days are vibrant with improvised colors
dancing to unfretted music sliding between
half-steps. It is a song, if we forget we are alone,
we would join every morning with the sunrise.
But needing salvation, our planet so full of melodies,
fastens hope to its flag while the trees (replanted)
inch their way to the vertical staff of the conductor’s
score.
fastens hope to its flag while the trees (replanted)
inch their way to the vertical staff of the conductor’s
score.
