Sparrow
(from Bede)


In the long cold winter the only warmth
was of that hall yellow with firelight, smelling
of bread and men’s sweat.

Through which the sparrow flies window to
window, dark night to cold night, a stitch
through the room’s heat.

And none within know where it came from,
and none within know where it goes to.

But outside the winter is wider than
houses and the sparrow was born in the wood.

In the night, winter wakes in a black
bough and opens his mouth
to take back his own.



Plum & Daughter


I’ve forgotten the number
of times I’ve eaten
forbidden fruit.

The tree whose roots knot
pebbles, around the lost daughter,
the plum that winks out at night
and breathes at morning—even now
does it bear purple fruit
with bitter skin?

The lost, the let go. Breath comes
from those fruits, lives in the bodies
of strangers. Damp petals paper
flagstones pale pink.

You must be careful of the numbers,
count how many
seeds and jewels you
take, count the trees that woke
with you on cold mornings.