Worry not, sparrow, for your Father cares for you.
Let no noon heat oppress you, nor thunder alarm you,
for now you nest away from the temporal day.
Why did your parents nest you in the awning
so metal, in sun direct, in the corrugation of the metal braces?
We saw them heedful, anxious for you in the whispering
dogwood, singing their breedful lullaby from their place.
But, I imagine, house finches do not consult the fairy tales
that make very clear one does not chance iron
in the magic lands, where the day is fey
and children and all sparrow creatures dance
the way, under His joyful eye.
Today, in the dead noon,
I climbed the gutter and the awning, and singed myself
on burning metal
to get you.
I take literally His promise, He who made you
in the April moon,
surely, despite your sad upbringing,
your parents' good intentions
that turned into tragic miscalculations
and helplessness as they sang
then stopped the lullaby,
for that is how
Sleep well, little sparrow, in this new nest,
by my sweet roses.
Sing well, little soul, in His infinite consciousness,
until the Day,
when you and I shall soar, in untroubled repose,
with the Rest.