At the back door, at last light, with the dogs,
I hear birds sound, singing with as much delight
As much thankfulness, as their morning song
Had prayed, displayed; they are as ever
Unafraid. Like Job who, losing everything he thought was his, only said,
“the Lord has given; the Lord has taken away.
We accept good things from his hand.
Should we not accept evil?”
I am no bird.
I am no Job.
I do not hear the music today; I do not sing.
I have not found a way through the fear
To the acceptance …
But maybe, just perhaps, that’s
Why he says so often, again and again
To whomever would listen and to those who could not
“Do not fear. Be not afraid.”
Perhaps it is not a command.
Perhaps these are syllables of comfort
From a divine mother feeding her timid young
In a nest She has built
A nest that did not fall, did not fail
Even when the great wind came
That robbed Job of his children.
So, the birds sing, unseen, in the dying light
They know, beyond any fear
That it will be born again.