Little Sparrow

Mother, I think of you:
I see the gardens of a mother’s mother’s mother,
the dusty roads of Spain,
the cobblestones of Italy.
I can see your golden hair in the sun of it all
and in the water of the river,
a young girl dips a pail,
not knowing what her womb will bear.
And an ocean parts the two of you;
A deeper ocean parts me from you.

A bird flew from her fingertips,
a little sparrow,
a little dream,
a little daughter.

Mother, I dream of you,
and I see the joined hands of our recent separation:
the dusty road of Dallas,
concrete of a modern city.
I can see your golden hair upon the pillow beneath it all
and in the water of a tear,
your young girl dips her pail —
who knows what her womb will bear.
And an ocean parts the two of you;
A deeper ocean keeps me from you.

A bird flew from your fingertips…
a little sparrow,
a little dream,
a little daughter.

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2 thoughts on “Little Sparrow

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