The early evening sky had cracked open
and was leaking. I think you must remember
how it is, one reflected wave of gold
hovering above the white-tailed doe as she
pastures on your lawn, where
her swollen belly sings of winter’s relentless
growth, and the life inside her kicks out
through darkness, reaching; how the sweet sun
kisses the sparrow’s
beak a gentle farewell, and coaxes
amber saplings deep within your chest
to awaken, to stretch, to unfurl—
you must remember how
we prayed that afternoon, silent,
tight-lipped mourners
with grief just beginning to bloom.
Cry! said the
sparrow, and my answer
came in anguish: what could I cry?
Even new grass withers in the night
which comes to all, which will
swallow up this evening glory, too
but in that moment
the bleeding sky had dripped
into my open mouth and burst there
with shocking radiance,
an explosion of triumph and bewildering joy
that lingered on my tongue
for hours, long after dusk
had faded, and only streetlamps in their orange
glow heard the melodies that climbed
unbidden from my throat and went out,
weeping, to where you are.
When they returned to me, you had filled them
with the close circle of a father’s comfort,
with new laughter
and a promise.
Thus while the sidewalk turned to lamplight gold
beneath my feet, I stood,
baffled but listening, and
it came calling, reaching out
through darkness. The staggering song of
hope. That blinding sound
of morning on its way.