Tiny, almost an anti-weight, if it blew off my palm in the wind I might not even notice. Dashing against the back porch glass, the bird fell onto logs I’d stacked there, or rather heaped. I loaded our wood more neatly out in the shed but this jumble of lumber reminded me my life lacked grace.
Wind didn’t kill the bird but misprision. My oldest daughter had just given birth to twins, and I was thinking of them of course when I saw the sparrow. We’re in a hopeful season. I’d like to imagine new beginnings, not ponder for instance the self-styled Christian Warriors I heard about lately, devoted to killing police,
to launching Armageddon. They claim these are days of Antichrist, and I could almost agree—for other reasons. Thou shalt not murder is among the Commandments, I’d remind the warriors, all nine of whom live in Michigan, a place near hell in this near Depression.
Days are bad worldwide, though in gospel God’s eye takes in the smallest sparrow. Vile hooligans among us storm over having a president who’s other than white. We’re all human, and none of us saved, and—as the old Greek said— it might have been best if we’d never been born.
And yet to imagine a world devoid of hope is too easy and lazy, I decide. Outside the odors of spring fly in on the wind: damp mulch, old ice, wet mud and sap. The sugar-makers hope for a few more gallons, hope for a few more years, to be with my children. I open the stove, sweep the bird in.
It’s distracting, everything’s changing wherever I look; an electric blue patch of squill nearly makes me crash, and all the twigs are, suddenly, beaded with leaf buds, while the yellowness of the willows is brightening hourly. I park so I can watch, I jump out of the car and dance along, I’m beaming like a lunatic, and really, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, I’ve seen it happening over fifty times in many different places; I should know that as soon as these words are written, they’ll be old; the leaf buds will be emerald. You’d think I’d give up trying to catch the delicate insinuation of the air, which can’t be caught; the words collapse, they tumble and mesh together breezily interlaced in a tangle of green, the yellow caravel entirely madrigal, and every jonquil ravishment squeezed fresh.
Set in rural Louisiana, Udayan Prasad’s tender, affecting road picture The Yellow Handkerchief combines a coming-of-age narrative with the tale of a man driven to seek the salvation he believes he no longer deserves.
There is no damping of betrayal’s guilt, The little deeds of virtue cannot serve; They niggle at the structures time has built, Unwilling to admit what they deserve. Even the grasping at the words of grace: "Come unto me, and I will give you rest,” Become the tempter’s taunt, thrown in your face, Counting betrayals of this fair behest. And still it comes, this welcome to the feast, Albeit shadowed with the guilt and sin; Strange Love reminds that this is freedom’s test, And given so, the grace must follow in. So there is damping of betrayal’s guilt, On Calvary, when Covenant blood was spilt.
These waters, I must trouble for myself, in an age of the absence of angels, as I plunge, first of the day to break the lambent surface of the pool, and commence my daily reaching after miracles, swimming laps at almost eighty-one. The miracle I seek these recent years has been defined, and then refined, by that old friendly temporizer, “yet”; no longer seeking not-to-die-at-all, just not-to-die-quite-yet, to win a couple bonus years, in which to pen another poem or two, to pile a few more chosen words onto this heap I have—for Oh so long—been working on. Any healing that might come will clearly have to be short term. Until, that is, I reach the final turn, take up my beggar’s bed, and walk.
Print books remain significantly more popular than digital books, according to a recent Pew Research Center survey. The bad news is that the number of people who reported reading a book in any format last year was 73 percent, down from 79 percent in 2011 when Pew first started gathering data on the reading habits of America (Publishers Weekly, September 16).