5 June 2007, 8:42 AM
The Raven never leaves
off- seeds are falling
to the ground, scattering too far
ever to be found in their entirety.
She’s like a sower, casting seeds
only on the dry, rocky, wounded soil,
knowing full well they’ll never sprout;
only find arid places to bake in the sun,
crack, return to dust with never a
chance to find what might have been
if only the Sower of Discontent
had left a little seed for the Songbirds.
Even in the parable of the sower,
very little seed found the soil-
and he was just doing his job. If I remember
rightly, the seeds that found rocks,
thorns and thistles became food for birds.
Even so, some seed was found
on fertile ground- it does exist. All is not lost.
There are corners of Paradise untouched
by ravens and serpents. There are trees
growing strong and tall beneath suns rising;
moons waxing and waning as they ought,
with no regard for stark, raving blackbirds.
And there are other birds- Songbirds nesting
in the limbs of Oaks and Sycamores,
among the intertwingled branches of white roses,
growing wild and unexpected in the Haven,
bearing, unapologetically, beauty and brambles...
And I wonder if the doorway to Peace exists
in understanding the Songbirds
were never ours to begin with- a precious
charge within our keep, entrusted
for their sake, and not for ours. We must
allow the days and nights, the suns and moons,
the roses and the brambles
to bend and sway, listening all the while
to these precious life-songs of birds
who rest in our Haven for a time, only
a time- listening when their songs are bent
with tears or free to find the uppermost
branches and the sky, the sun, the moon,
the stars and the heavens behind them.