Pause in the reading of this poem,
Perhaps as is befitting a spiritual sage,
Which maybe you are, or were in a different age.
Go slowly as we discern the limits of words,
Approach a small, narrow, hallowed place.
Allow the unspeakable to have a voice in your head.
These days, no one knows anymore. No one cares.
But four thousand years ago, people like you and me
Would write questions or draw pictures, stick figures,
Put them in little clay pots, shaped by their own hands,
Place them on the banks of the Nile, wondering
“Do all the gods really exist?
What’s on the other side of death?
Will the floods cover the fields this year?
Wlll we have food on the table?”
They lifted their heads and looked
To white Sun blazing on sands of Egypt,
Waited for an answer to come in dreams
Or hoped for a sparrow to fly,
Deliver a prayer or question to wherever it is
Sparrows fly— on a wish or a hope on wings.
And they prayed sparrow would return by morning
With an answer. To this day, we don’t know if it did.
But I have it from highest authority,
Afore Moses stood before burning bush,
Sparrow was there, hopping from branch to branch,
Building a nest, laying eggs— waiting for God,
Who plotted trajectory of fire,
Until Moses appeared, staggering barefoot,
Stood before unburning flame, scratching his head,
Falling to knees in bewildering silence.
Trust me, by the end of the poem,
It all becomes questionably clear…
For now pause, consider question of questionable significance:
Do sparrows themselves dream? Are they capable of prayer?
On this, even ornithologists are a trifle uncertain,
Though it may not be a trifle matter to sparrows….
What is a falling feather, floating down to earth,
If not a dream or answered prayer? Jung might fully agree.
I once knew an ornithologist, years ago,
Who studied sparrows and still did not know.
To drown the uncertainty, she drank too much,
Becoming even more uncertain, staggering about like Moses,
Scratching her head till it hurt,
Red flaming hair falling out, drifting down
Like little feathers to Earth. Do you begin to see
How this all fits together?
What ancient Egyptians knew, and we have forgotten,
Now falls in broad category of mystery,
And the greatest of mysteries is the mystery of birth,
Death, blazing white Sun, beginning and end of Earth.
Even back then, the sparrow was just one more thing.
But how does it fly, up there in the air,
The air— which covers mysterious Earth….
These days, it’s all a myth to me.
Sometimes it claws at me— looking deeply
Into tiny eyes of a sparrow, wondering
Is this Jurassic eye or the eye of God?
In Egyptian hieroglyphics, trust me,
I learned this in Egypt from a guide
Who swore Isis transformed into a bird,
Flying in search for the body parts of Osiris.
Last of his body she found in the Nile: his penis,
Not less or more, but enough to bring him back to life.
Was there erection, or was it resurrection?
Carved in stone, hieroglyph of bird was often little sparrow,
Meaning small or narrow or sick— owned by the wind,
Pushed high by strong storms, becoming uncertain in flight…
Just like modern ornithologists who sometimes
Drink too much, at risk of losing their hair at night,
Fall down narrow flight of stairs….
Jesus said even the very hairs of your head are numbered.
Fear not: you are of more value than many sparrows.
Yet still there may be uncertain word,
Warning our time is narrow. Listen, I pray,
To little gray bird, in flight or perched on branch—
Carrying a message we need to hear,
Each time it loses a feather.
"Headwinds" ---Fred Turpin's Poetry Blog 