I stand at the window watching birds
and think of Rilke, who speaks of his ache
for a pure, human, contained place,
our own strip of fruit-bearing soil.
I know that pain. I’m overtaken by envy
as five sparrows peck under a wild plum
then lift, as a single unit of desire,
into rain-soaked limbs–as if heeding
a signal from the stars.
Why them and not me? I want to step
through the glass into a life of wings
suffused with holy electricity, guided
by celestial direction. Yet, I’m stuck
in this stumbling, graceless, human shape.
I wish myself into the souls of those sparrows
that dart from damp branches and disappear
over dark green leaves of a laurel hedge.
How do we catch sight of what
only moments before lay in shadow?
A ray of sun filters through pewter clouds,
passes through the pane. It touches my face.
I see my own strip of fruit-bearing soil.
It lies below the wild plum. I rush
to sink my feet into that fertile loam.
