Little bird

Morning;

and this tight knot of sadness.

Radiates to all my limbs, in the short night

has been gathering her wings.

Comes to me now, just as I need to be busy with other things.

I must ask her to wait.

In the meantime I cradle my melancholy heart, and soothe

her tattered wings.

Poor bird.

Torn from the nest too soon, what can I do to let you sing again?

In Springs gathering light, to venture out from the deep solace of the night,

to see what new day will bring?

Poor little bird, what can you do to find your sweet voice, once more rejoice?

Over and over again you must learn, sweet bird,

this deep heart ache cannot be slaked, by turning away.

And I shall make you a small house, a tidy nest for your small sorrows.

Somewhere to escape and rest from life’s business;

high in the trees on a clear, calm Summer’s day.

And to your very bones, you will be tender,

will remember he who died alone, despaired he was forsaken,

who bowed to pain, and rose again in light.

Or the prince who waited beneath a great tree,

whilst the winds raged and the very Earth was shaken.

Until dawn broke, and he found he was awakened.

For sorrow and sadness and grief endured, opens a portal into another world.

Where, like an ancient, beloved hymn, a flickering light is found within.

Attended to; nourished, grows into a light that holds the world and whispers of God within.

And then little bird, you will spread your wings.

In joyful abandon.

And sing and sing and sing.

With the great flocks in the wheeling skies, open and shut in those massive formations,

one and all in transformation.

Little bird, sorrow, and rest and rise.

Little bird, sorrow, and rest and rise!

© IDF Andrew 

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