Awe
descends
like snowflakes
in the silence
finding asylum
in the holy places
where it perches plump and blue
a quiescent electric spark
sent to shock the soul from its stasis
with a sudden gasp of winterclean air
Bluebird in the falling snow this afternoon, perched on the birdhouse my father-in-law made when my boys were small. They still call it “Pa-Pa’s bird church.” Those sparks are reflections of my Christmas tree lights in the window where I stood to capture this picture of awe.
Today
when I rose
it was
not dark
Windows backlit
winter-pale, eggshell
embryonic
but light
Still cold
beyond the blankets
when I open
the blinds
To find
a bluebird
resting on
old deck railing
Plump and poised
for one long minute
his feathers painted
with sky and rust of earth
Little harbinger
on weatherworn wood
-while it is yet winter
spring is yawning
I hold my breath
in shell-light, shivering
as the promise
takes wing, and flies
*******
A bit of rough-draft offering for Poetry Friday.
Thanks to Jone Rush McCulloch for hosting.
Photo: Bluebird. Rick from Alabama. CC BY. – because I couldn’t get to my camera in time. The poem is my snapshot.
lit bits and pieces 