Even the sparrow has found a resting place
And we are all such trembling parts to make a whole,
Bird-like, hollow-bones, somehow finding we are able to fly

Only now do we see the miracle and begin to fly finally free of any striving
Aware only of the holiness of sky, and the rise of wind which pinwheels us in our freedom

 Still, most of the time, we are tired
Needing some shadow to find shade in despite all this glorious flight—

When the great world has left us dry, and our desire—which cannot lay fallow, which can’t die—
Seems to deny us and crucify that little bit of strength left inside
All that can be done is to learn to hold it, cradling it like a mother bird holds its chick
As desire batters us like waves pounding at a ship,
Like a fallow field bemoaning hail

Only to find, in the sun-drenched morning after, that
We are suddenly struck drunk with something like electricity
(Call it Spirit if it must be named);

Because the Holy of Holies cannot be constrained by the stone walls in which we shelter
And the world, in our emptying, becomes a nest, and even pestilence finds its place outside your gate
As some power spills into the great world like a bird’s cry, whispering
That everything belongs and that, in the end,
All becomes a song
And takes wing
And finds the wind

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