When I realized the dead sparrow
in the not-yet dandelions beneath the tree
marked depression, not nature’s charming riddle,
the sky opening for rain like a famished mouth
so that, at last, the trees could lick themselves clean
of winter, I looked through the tree to find a half-nest
perched at the highest branch. Looking through,
I found not only an almost-home, the branches
macabre, but the question of full versus empty.
I wanted to be full, to marvel at the way
a sparrow fills with the small soft language
of joy, reminding us to survive until next season.
But the tree was sick of the sparrow’s labor.
Now empty of wings, the nest proved still.
I believe a thing can be both restless and at rest.
Take the blood the way it’s both the stream and a boat.
God is like that. Swelling as he enters
from behind. Sometimes I wear nothing
but his mercy, the myth of flesh. Then, at times,
I alarm like a warning to what’s coming.