Wednesday, January 7, 2009

After Antietam

When all my hard-earned seeds
have been pecked free by tiny yellow birds,
and I am left
standing in this God-forsaken field,
feathered in owl-gray husks,
trailing woolly remnants
in the blue-clad night of winter,

Who will call to me,
sing me down the wind,
draw me with moonlight,
through the cold dark earth
and into the star of wonder?

When will I get my own wings?
Who will give me voice to cry
the sweet spring’s chirp of rejoicing;
a tongue to sip the nectar of the sun?

Shivering in death-scented darkness --
fragile, chilled, awash in darkness --
lost, afraid, alone in darkness
I wait, and listen for the Light.

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