JENA WOODHOUSE
First Bird The unknown bird that sings with ideal pitch and key— his thirds and perfect fifths dispersing grey light on the eastern coast, suffusing jacarandas with an amethyst intensity— interrogates the universe, intoning with unceasing zeal, as if each morning saw the world reborn in flawless purity.
In this bird’s cosmogony the word for no does not exist, nor is he willing to concede some things were never meant to be; he utters purer, truer notes than any songbird known to me, but in the gloom preceding dawn his form is hidden by the tree:
I do not know the bird’s name, yet I seem to understand his song, clear as a bell that chimes within a place of sanctuary.
The bird sang thus to me.
Through closed eyes he assails my hearing joyously, insistently, as if to call dulled senses to bear witness to the birth of day, penetrating slumber’s ragged edges with his clear appeal, precluding all reluctance to arise, respond ecstatically—
Miracles are not revealed to those who lack humility; love is the only universal key, the sacred mystery; every time you love, your spirit heals—
© Jena Woodhouse 2023 November - December POETRY & WRITING © liveencounters.net
