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SINGING OF THE BIRDS
Last
Night I read again in that old book
of wise men following a wandering star,
of virgin birth; of sermons, disciples,
miracles, and parables; arrest and death
spreadeagled 'neath the sky;
his sad corpse entombed, then rising
triumphant to redeem us all from Eve and
Adam's alleged crime--contagious fall. I argued
to and fro again with the whole bloody
scenario--the injustice of inherited sin.
Questioned, doubted we'll ever unpeel the onion-
layered myth to reveal true history's core--and
with such questions whirling in my head like white
moths batting on the screen, put away the book,
lay back, shut off the light they sought and fell
asleep--sleeping not at all like the dead,
for hours later I arose, awakened in the silvered
dawn by countless birds, the angels of our earth,
gloried in their chorus and shared their joy, uplifted
by morning trees cathedral high and still against
the brightening sky. Found there the salvation I would
need, gladly let go the other stuff. To awaken with the day
to the singing of the birds, was miracle enough. |