Old Notes Made New
Not long before the train roars down the track
across the river from our house, I lie in bed
and listen to old notes made new by a bird
dressed in a red sports jacket like the lively
evangelist who once spoke of a narrow road
when I was a young girl. Like then, I do not
raise questions. I do not reply.
I stay mute and do not move.
But I am not a limp listener.
Within the new notes eons old
lives a bold truth: it calls me back
to a picture of light of which I am a ray.
May the bird crack morning after morning—
fall, winter, spring and summer—
until the moon falls out of the sky.
Not long before the train roars down the track
across the river from our house, I lie in bed
and listen to old notes made new by a bird
dressed in a red sports jacket like the lively
evangelist who once spoke of a narrow road
when I was a young girl. Like then, I do not
raise questions. I do not reply.
I stay mute and do not move.
But I am not a limp listener.
Within the new notes eons old
lives a bold truth: it calls me back
to a picture of light of which I am a ray.
May the bird crack morning after morning—
fall, winter, spring and summer—
until the moon falls out of the sky.