A Poem
I wrote this poem in the dark early morning hours one winter morning in 2023 while still in bed in the back house apartment that I rented in Lubbock. One of the few things I loved about that little back house was the near-daily morning alarm of Northern Cardinals and how it echoed so loudly beneath the mulberry tree and into my old, cracked, single-pane bedroom windows.
I wake to a cardinal singing from the mulberry tree in my backyard. Her song echoes loudly beneath the canopy of naked branches. She sings as though she knows the leaves will unfurl and the blossoms will open, as if she knows that soon the days of new life will come and others will join in her chorus of hope. How does she know spring will come? Her sharp voice breaks the silence of the cold night, as if she knows the seasons will continue to turn and this too shall pass. We too shall pass. Nevertheless she sings, and soon when others join her, the trees will have no choice but to unfurl their leaves. The blossoms will have no other desire but to open. Perhaps spring will only come if we sing.
Take good care, friends.
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