The 6am bird outside my window
knows nothing of this angst,
the heavy beat of my heart,
it just sings
peter-peter-peter
peter-peter-peter
and sings some more,
but I have no song
not this day, not this week
I am speechless
and songless
and almost…
almost
hopeless.
Do you think the titmouse
would still sing if it
could see the foreshadow of winter,
the deception of sunshine days,
and the unkind cold of darkness?
Would the lilt of
peter-peter-peter
peter-peter-peter
be just as joyful,
playful even as birds skip
from branch to branch
this November morning?
Will I be joyful
or playful even, in the shadow
of what comes or doesn’t come,
what hides hungry in wait,
or what the fresh sky offers
as holy compensation?
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