The Sparrow Found Him First

A sparrow sang of grief today.  In blue,
the sky bowed rev'rently as August held its breath.
The willow wept her draping tears.  She knew
a mother's dread would soon be overwhelmed by death.

A roiling summer storm had left its mark
upon the town of Cooper's Bay.  The sirens wailed
to send the timid fleeing.  Dogs did bark
at mayhem in the air as twisted winds prevailed.

A funnel tore the town apart, then died.
In silence, huddled eyes stared out from houses caved
upon themselves.  The weakest stayed inside.
The brave would venture first to see what God had saved.

They fell into the streets, too numb to think.
Young children ran to find their friends and share the thrill
of living through catastrophe; too soon to blink.
By grace, it seems, no injuries were suffered, still.

A boy of twelve found courage quick.  He raced
into the sunny peace, the afternoon turned clear.
Adventure could be had if he made haste.
For bragging rights, he'd comb the swollen river near.

His mother called his name until she bled.
The splintered town so torn by gale raised new alarms,
and sirens wailed again with nervous dread
this time for rescuers.  The homeless came in swarms.

They scoured every inch of rubbled town.
They searched the hills and valleys wrecked by cyclone hands,
again with lanterns when the sun went down.
By morning, weary souls were bowed by strong demands.

The sparrow found him first.  His mother cried.
Old willow brushed a tender leaf across his skin,
and when his mother stumbled to his side,
young sparrow cocked an eye and flew into the glen.

As mother held her blue-gray son and wept,
a gentle rhythm rose among the grass and trees.
She wailed despair, refusing to accept
the comfort offered by the willow and the breeze.

The town of Cooper's Bay had lost a son.
Surviving hail and brutish wind, the townsmen sighed
until their luck was changed.  Their triumph won
was spun into a silence they could not abide.

The sparrow sings of grief today.  In blue,
the sky bows rev'rently as summer holds its breath.
The willow weeps her draping tears anew
each time a mother's dread is overwhelmed by death.

October: 2007

Danse Oriental

My mothers gave me grace
to share the ritual of womb,
the sing
the riches of the earth
with hallowed sinews coursing
a blood that carries forward
life beyond the ancients' tomb.

Into the light of sacred souls
the homage rites convulse,
on birthing bed
the babe is torn
into the world of rhythm
and echoed
by the bellies' yielding enigmatic pulse.

Inhibitions soak
into the shifting barefoot sands
as mothers
chant the virgins' fears
rekindled by the frenzy
of hopes
that dance will cast reward
upon the barren lands.

I praise the womb that passed me here
to celebrate in living
and honor the mesmeric dance,
a grant of sisterhood
releasing primal knowledge
through this simple act of giving.

September:  2005

Honorable mention in the NFSPS's 2008 'Mothers and Daughters' competition

Acquaintance by Birth

Alone, I study silence
from your mothering hand.
We've lived these years
at awkward lengths;
and finally
I understand this veil
hanging thin
yet impenetrable between us --
a mother-daughter bonding
unfulfilled.
I felt it
from before I knew
you'd let my sister name me.
You passed such sacred honor
to your first-born favorite child.
What was it,
in the months before my birth,
that I had not
lived up to in your eyes?
What sin, egregious,
harmed you from the womb?

Behind the love I know you feel
there hangs a truth
which weaker moments now reveal --
love is not the same as like,
and favor falls
to someone I am not.

January: 2008