Hen, Passerine

29 Mar


She springs

twig to knobbley twig

amid pale pebble buds

opening under their

jackets of papery vein.

In warble wonder,

her voice clips round

the bareness

of bush,

the warmish drizzle

coating its

black stick frame,

carrying away the last hangings

of fall’s dead.

No nest now

for a sparrow

put out of tune.

No mate.

No promise egg.

No host

within which to make

a downy bed.

Her calls

do not wake His eye.

We watch

each other

as He breathes

out a new world,

in the pause

between refrain

and verse.

One Response to “Hen, Passerine”

  1. Tony Beers April 10, 2015 at 12:53 AM #

    Absolutely Beautiful! Send right now to the New Yorker, they like nature poems and yours may catch their attention, although I have submitted there many times…but once I got a hand written rejection note from the editor. Guess that’s something 🙂

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