May 1, 2013 by northerncardinalreview
The kitchen light did not intrude.
I reached for a dish and the sparrow
at the feeder flew.
The sparrow at the feeder flew,
but not into glass,
not into yesterday as ghosts do.
Why do days, long gone and continents away,
leak into my face?
A nuthatch whirls off. The ocean too,
that black parachute torn among rocks,
billows as if trying to rise.
In me impatience—it has no memory,
it wants what it wants —
shudders like water,
its mist, its fog. But this moment
holds what was with what is.
Night, that foreign place of worship, waits
to contain me.
This morning I stretch for a bowl
and a sparrow stays. Here’s a joy you don’t have to hear
to hear. The intimacy of reaching and reaching and then
not reaching. Beating, singing, inclusive: presence—
bird that does not move from the window
and then moves.
Carole Glasser Langille’s fourth book of poems, Church of the Exquisite Panic: The Ophelia Poems, was published in the fall of 2012. She lives in Nova Scotia.