Today I haven't written down
anything profound. Instead I've
sat around, trying
to listen to the sound of humility.
I've had coffee, given in
and read the news, marveled at both
the boldness of power
and the obduracy of conspiracy.
I've walked around
and seen all the clouds,
dense and deep white, keeping vigil
over a haunted neighborhood—
its buildings like busts
of pagan idols with craven
looks upon their faces,
its tulips and daffodils, only
in mid-April, already learning
to hang their heads in disgrace.
I've watched empty buses
and jam-packed delivery trucks
diminish down the monochrome avenue
and imagined the somber cold-cave echoes
of Gregorian Chant playing
on all of their radios.
And of course, I've heard the birds,
timid at first, then growing
gradually louder as the day crescendos,
as if pleading with the half-hidden
sun for salvation—not for themselves,
but on behalf of the rest of us.