The feathered chest-dweller
coughs. We cannot hear
her song. We gather
at the ribbed rafters,
a motley congregation
of morose faces, to wait,
sensing her watch.
Perhaps she wants
something now,
but there isn’t a crumb
among us.
Then comes a low hum,
spreading through the nave
of our assembly until
our mouths drop the lines
that seal them.
Opened, we pour out
syllables of grief
too sharp to speak,
that she may absorb
enough to form
an echo.
***
Responding to Dickinson.
Isn’t it interesting that Dickinson wrote that poem during the First American Civil War? Great response!
Hmm. It definitely is. This is a useful perspective to hold at the forefront of the mind right now. Thank you, Bartholomew. Love and light to you, friend.