Birdwoman
Feed the birds,
she cried
from the steps of St. Pauls,
five cents a bag.
A woman so old
no one knew when she first came
to sell her bread crumbs
and talk to the birds.
She was wrapped brown
in a shawl of earthen patches,
and wore a hat woven
from dead grass.
One day
I could not take my eyes off her
as the herd stampeded by
scarcely noticing
neither her nor I.
She uttered melodious murmur
of people, places, and times of before,
her so like a dove,
white, alive, and free
to float high above the earth
with the wind fondling her breast
and her tiny heart bursting
with song.
I asked her
about the birds
and of her devotion to them,
and she replied
that she loved birds
above all the Lord's creatures
because she knew:
At night
when the sun no longer
cascades through stained glass
and high open windows;
when the priests are asleep,
the pews empty,
the mammoth oaken door locked,
the alter cold and metallic,
and the ivory Christ
can rest on his cross;
the angels
on the walls and ceiling,
who hover forever in one spot
smiling and blessing
the bunch below,
are never alone.
For they can always hear
in a voice much like their own,
the cooing of birds.
Glenn Buttkus
1965 revisited
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2 comments:
Thank you, that is exactly what I meant, more of yours on yours.
Trust you though, you instantly and very generously pour it on to my site, you lovely man.
"the melodious murmur.........i like that.........and this moved me........At night
when the sun no longer
cascades through stained glass
and high open windows;
when the priests are asleep,
the pews empty,
the mammoth oaken door locked,
the alter cold and metallic,
and the ivory Christ
can rest on his cross;
the angels
on the walls and ceiling,
who hover forever in one spot
smiling and blessing
the bunch below,
are never alone."
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