The Birds of Heaven

Pay heed.


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

There are many times
when our houses
fall down around us,
when no part is left

Then we must pick
the best of the old stones
to build new rooms.

But we must also take
the new maple,
just sawn,
white like the sands
along the Great Lakes,
and build something shining.

We must make brand new gables,
whose attic windows
are left open for birds
to fly through,
the birds of heaven—

and the Barn Owl
who finds shelter
for her life.

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About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on December 8, 2013, in Poem - Not Written By Me Though, Reposted from elsewhere. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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