Sunday, December 7, 2014

The Dark Bird

Hope descends like a dark bird and settles in the heart,
Weaving itself a nest of human fibers:
Blood and love, belief and trust, the birth pangs
Of passion.
There it sits in silence.
The dark bird has no song; only its feathers rustle,
Occasionally, recalling its secret presence.

Faith is a white light and charity a flame.
Both are entirely palpable, visible.
Hope is a shy creature; it camouflages itself
In the currents of desire.
It can only be detected in a universal question
Murmured before the shadow of the future:
Can the end of this be joy?

Hope is the hardest of loves.
Its goal is far away and faint, a song
From another bird lost in the wind.
So easily a heart could dismiss the call:
The delusion of groundless optimism.
Yet in her nest the still, small bird
Broods over the certainty that the voice is true.

Faith ascends on snowy wings of a dove,
And charity is a phoenix reborn from ashes.
Before their splendor no one remembers
A simple sparrow.
Yet in the silence between breaths
She abides and whispers,
Every manner of thing will be well. 

3 comments:

  1. I like how you have given this verse wings and flight. :)
    Best to you and yours this season.
    And Happy New Year.

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  2. Thank you, Jules :) I love birds! I get the impression you do too, from reading your poems.

    Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you as well!

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  3. "Hope is the thing with feathers" ;) Actually, I was never too satisfied with the way Emily Dickinson continued that poem, so this fills a gap in my poetic experience. ;)

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