I
Everyone knows a sparrow;
common as dirt.
Dirt-coloured too, every earthen shade:
granite to iron oxide to the deepest, velvet dark,
streaking to slate in a sand-edged tail.
Here, you are a welcome bit of warmth in winterland —
a meadow blurred with snow,
stalks of spent summer glowing gold in the white light.
Brought front and centre, the striped head and
the seed-like beak reveal another wonder:
an infinitesimal exhalation etching itself on the frigid air.
O holy ghost, ever invisible to the naked, yearning eye;
O Life, O Art:
This is your testament.
II
Winter again: snow and faded goldenrod,
shades of pewter, save for your fuzzy summer peach.
The day is cold:
You sport a junco puffer vest and muffler;
frost furs your balaclava-beak.
Dear little one, keep living.
III
— the sun, the day —
The eastern bluebird sings a picture without words.
I am entranced by the perfection of its feet,
insectizoid in their jointure.
We think of you as creatures of the air but are you, really?
Your regal side-eye pins me to your place.
Twig and lichen are your grasp, Sky
no more than backdrop blue, Tree
mere hazy branching.
In indigo-and-russet robe you pose,
nature and capture made perfect frame:
one radiant scion of that race, which, once and long ago,
reigned, lordly, over all the earth.
Written for Isabel M.
(c) 2024 by Laura Peetoom
“I don’t like hearts,” a friend said, when the shape of a potential something was being discussed. This both startled (I’m so used to feeling alone in my strange dislikes) and buoyed me. My heart, as it were, leapt.
