Words burn. Wounded words
Smolder from the day before.
Scorched, we mourn in the stench of scorn.
I sit at my computer screen.
You stare out the door
At your weeping cherry trees.
Bereft, we gather what is left.
An unknown bird, brilliant yellow,
Lands in a weeping cherry tree.
Offering his bell-like song,
He cocks his smart red head.
I freeze. You tiptoe toward your camera.
A joint mission takes the place
Of bitter and bewildered thoughts
And leads us where we both belong,
Dizzy in the healing heights
Of chasing God’s own creature’s song.