Small Bird Fly Away
Melissa E. Beckwith
I wrote this soon after my first grandchild passed away at a month old–For Jacob
Brown hills curve under a scarlet sky.
Earth’s mouth wide mourning for refreshment.
Dry and dusty; only emptiness.
A shadow is cast along the burnt grass
Spring starts to return in a shelter of cool.
Still time must tick away and wait.
Water falls to the hard ground
where great cries echo.
Blood of earth is forced from womb.
Spring has finally come.
Hungry arms gobble up
what has been given.
What was empty is now full,
though nothing will stay the same.