April 19: Dead Birds, Psalm 42, Poetry Reading

Yesterday, when I got home from work, there was a bowl face-down on my front lawn.  I thought my daughter had eaten a snack outside and then left the empty bowl carelessly on the grass.  I swore a little bit, went to the bowl, and picked it up.  Underneath was a dead wren.  I screamed like a girl for a second.  When I went inside, my daughter told me she'd covered the bird up because she it made her sad to look at it.  I thanked her for giving me the idea for a poem.  That is the genesis of today's psalm.

Bye bye birdie!

This whole week is going to be crazy busy.  Tonight, I have a rehearsal for a drama in which I'm performing on Maunday Thursday.  Then I going to a local business to read poetry at an open mic night for National Poetry Month.  (I told you about this event yesterday.)  Tomorrow night, I have another drama rehearsal at 6 p.m.  I have choir practice at 7 p.m.  Then I have band practice at 8 p.m.  On Thursday, I have one more drama rehearsal at 5 p.m.  The drama takes place after a potluck dinner at 6 p.m.  At 7 p.m., there's going to be a communion service.  On Good Friday, I have services at 1 p.m. and 7 p.m.  On Saturday, I have practice for an Easter sunrise service at 11 a.m.  At 9 p.m., I'm playing for the Easter Vigil mass at the local Catholic church.  Then, on Easter morning, I have a service at 7 a.m. and 10:15 a.m.  After that, I'm going to collapse and possibly drink heavily.  Between all those things, I have papers to correct and poems to write.

Saint Marty is trying to maintain his sanity, trying to carve a little sacred time out of an incredibly crazy week.  Pray for him.

Psalm 42:  Wren

My daughter found a dead wren

On our lawn this morning,

On its back in frozen mud,

Its brown and white feathers

Dusted with frost and dew.

It looked as if it had fallen

In love with the stars during

The night, lain down on the ground

To admire their slow burn

Across the dark, and gone to sleep

In the middle of its reverie,

The way I sometimes doze off

In bed mid-prayer, blessings

Still sitting on my tongue, waiting.

My daughter covered the wren

With a cereal bowl, Corelle

Mausoleum under the April sun,

White as an eggshell.  I saw

The bowl when I came home,

Bent down, lifted it up

To see what it concealed.

The wren greeted me

With black eyes, its body

Soaked with melt and warmth.

As I watched, its chest

Lifted, fell, lifted again.

I waited to see if the wren

Would flit to its feet,

Fly away, risen, resurrected.

The wren continued

To move, and I realized

It was being reclaimed,

Its body broken down by

Lice and ant and larva

To its elements, its primal state.

I placed the bowl over

The wren once more, to give

Its death privacy.  In three days,

I will check on the wren

To see if the stone has been

Rolled away, the tomb, empty

As Easter morning.