Vigil

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.