PoetryPen.com

A bird stumbles out of its
fragile night,
wet with promise.

It doesn't cry
it sings

a song of creation.

There are competing
tunes, weightless, on the
tips of reborn oaks
as if green needed
a second melody,

and I chase the
starry flutes,
rise and fall
with miraculous wings
and step out of
earthbound ideas about
schedules and boundaries.

Simplicity was the answer to the riddle:

One thin shell between fear
and understanding.

An afterlife right now,
and for now,
nothing hidden.

Now hawks are rewriting
a simple sky,

now God's signature is all over
free-flowing blue,

and I stumble out of
my fragile night,
and sing a song of creation.

Patricia Joan Jones