Aubade with Bread for the Sparrows

The snow voids the distance of the road

and the first breath comes from the early morning

ghosts. The sparrows with their hard eyes

glisten in the difficult light. They preen

their feathers and chirp. It’s as though they were one

voice talking to God.

Mornings are a sustained hymn

without the precision of faith. You’ve turned the bag

filled with molding bread inside out and watch

the old crusts fall to the ice. What’s left

but to watch the daylight halved by the glistening ground?

What’s left but an empty bag and the dust of bread

ravaged by songsters?

There are ruins we witness

within the moment of the world’s first awakening

and the birds love you within that moment. They want

to eat the air and the stars they’ve hungered for, little razors.

Little urgent bells, the birds steal from each other’s mouths

which makes you hurt. Don’t ask for more bread.

The world is in haste to waken. Don’t ask for a name

you can surrender, for there are more ghosts to placate.

Don’t hurt for the sparrows, for they love you like a road.

Source: Furious Lullaby (Southern Illinois University Press, 2007)