Some Sort of Sorrow
In the yard Pine Grosbeaks
serenely feed on spruce seeds;
here is family of two adults and their young,
moving along the surface of the snow.
These are birds of constancy,
never migrating, content in the fallen snow.
I watch them take a glorious bath
fluttering in the powder.
I open the door to listen
to their soft, whistled conversations.
I go outside, and even though
I don’t belong,
I lie down
in untouched snow.
I lie down in the snow for serenity.
I lie down in the snow for motionlessness.
I lie down in the snow because I am unclean
and for this, I ache for conversation.
I lie down in the snow to gather it in my bare hands
and spread it over the sorrow of my self.
The birds, disturbed,
rise around and above me.
On my back,
mesmerized and freezing,
I watch them fly
All your life
haven’t you been sullied with
some sort of sorrow,
and all your life haven't you hoped
to cleanse it?