A Little Bird Once Told Me

and the world looks at me
for inspiration -
how I trust myself
and my skillful wings,
never afraid of sitting
on the branch
that could break
my nest and bones;

I want to tell them
to look beyond
what they see
and think they know;
I want to tell them
how I trust
my friend, the tree,
when I rest my tired wings,
upon her uncertain branches;
and my muse, the sky,
who draws me into
her blue mysteries
at the stroke of every new dawn;
and the wind, my co-traveller,
who holds and lifts me
into nothingness and love,
with his undying arms;

I want you to tell them this -
how a little bird
once told you
her story of freedom,
of trusting
not only her wings,
but all the things
that make her want to fly.

Listen

have you ever heard
anything in your life
more wonderful
than the way
a little bird
opens her heart
to let the love
she's filled
in her hollow bones,
seep into the empty sky?

and have you ever stopped
and wondered
for just a moment
how her faintest song
from that distant tree
flows in
with the sunbeams,
in good faith,
through your frozen window
every day?

and I ask you
if you will stand there
silent and empty-handed,
or turn away -
too busy, too scared;
and if you would
care to listen
to the joy-filled song
of your own wounded heart,
so you can listen, to mine?

Birdsong

have you heard
the wood shrike sing,
perched atop a hollow
bamboo stump?
she empties her heart
with every call,
into the blue green
wilderness;
she doesn't stop
to look and listen,
to passers by,
nor angels up high;
she just shatters her heart
to fill the world each time,
with her love for life
and unfettered joy;
I wish to sing
like her some day,
baring my heart,
where only love holds sway,
more than seasons
will be born here then,
when silence and song
merge, in Zen.