The heart traveling through rough terrain
makes its slow ascent — “Birds of Paradise”
I walked out this afternoon
expecting nothing
from the quiet street
with its row of blazing poplars,
the garden with its single,
sleeping hydrangea
and the sunflowers
toppled by some impetuous
child or wind or by the heaviness
of their sad yellow faces.
I expected nothing
but a short walk
around the block
on a November day,
not golden or mild
not blustery or made
wild by the nor’easter
promised in the forecast.
And then it set down
on the telephone wire
in the space
between two elms —
the mourning dove,
Pink and warm breasted,
it perched above a home
for the aged, well known
for its charitable deeds .
Plaintive muse,
master of lamentation,
messenger come
from the country
of sorrow and of love
to remember you.
I listened for a while
then walked on.
Why should I mourn?
Follower of the Spirit,
lover of the nightingale
poet of the embodied Name,
I can see you now,
soaring in your upturned
blue bowl of sky, circling
with the red-tailed hawk
the peak of Mount Norwottuck,
I hear your voice breaking
through the clouds,
the sweetness of your song
echoing through the valley —
Clean air. Clean water,
Food for every mouth
on earth!
Why are we always surprised?
The Beloved has told us —
this is what it’s like
to leap, tail flashing, into
that wild blue welkin,
This is how it feels to rise
and soar on the thermals
spiraling higher and higher
unfettered
weightless,
circling
in such wide gyrations
all the way
home.
* The name “Christine” means “Follower of the Spirit.”
— SLH