by John Muro
Out towards the lower fields in early morning
Light, mist hovering over the land like a medieval
Shroud, and the hardened, wheel-worn tracks
Take me past porcelain berry, wild radish and
An orchard long abandoned to chest-high grasses,
Sumac and jewelweed. The fatigued arms of
Apple trees are bent, swaddling shriveled fruit,
Calling to mind the burdens that can buckle
And pull down a life, when wind shuffles the
Shoulders of the tree-line and a sudden, bright
Gash of orange – a candle-wick flushed
To flame – is set adrift in autumn air. The
Beautiful body of bird offers a psalm of
Fluid lament, a mellifluous, near-whistle
Exquisitely delivered like an intercession
Deserving of both earth’s and heaven’s ear,
Seeking solace within this forgotten plot
Of land on such a day when life remains
Half-hidden and groans forth, and I, too,
With a heart contracted, look beyond the
Bird to give thanks for such small splendors
In a world so badly broken where hope, long
Ransomed, returns to us in the form of a wind-
Borne ember and the simpler miracle of song.