Poetry | Journal

There are sparrows in September shaken trees,
squirrels gnawing on autumn remains,
wayward leaves under feet still crunch with satisfaction,
and the breeze is warm like children’s smiles.
The sky this morning was rose,
it matched the flush in our cheeks
and burned with the mourn in our hearts
but the sparrows still sang to us, good morning.
Wild turkeys poked their way through the suburbs
and the crisp oak air of November gently embraced
the tender lift of warmth we pray to.
We’re ok.
A dark night does not disparage nor discredit the coming day,
rain clouds may unload but then always float away.
Nature thinks not of your politics,
the raccoon does not care who manufactured your scraps and where,
the earth is perpetually beautiful regardless of what we argue over here.
It is here for us to find solace in.
Michaelmas Daisies and Chrysanthemums want to tickle your nose,
the south flying foul narrate stories in their wake,
the sparrow’s chorus comes together every dawn
and sing this, this here, is our home.
You, us, we are all afraid to ruin it
even if we disagree on the means.
We’re ok.
Mother is here to hold our hands and get us through.
There are sparrows in the birch
and squirrels burrowing bellow,
listen to the sunset caress them tonight, then,
let it wash over you, too.