Do you know the way?
The bluebird, she knows, I would think.
I see her kneeling on a bough, and she dips
her feathered head, as if in prayer, as if to say
she knows her altar, she knows her place of rest.

The sky doesn’t understand prayer.
The sky doesn’t understand pain, or glory.
The sky doesn’t wonder how old she is,
how young, if her youth is still persisting despite time.

How the two fit so well together:
The bluebird and the sky. I meet them both in passing;
they do not greet me. All the earth is home.
All the living things are.
Goodbye and hello, are for death and birth only.

Am I so different? I am a mass taking up space.
I cast a shadow; but does not also the bird?
Why is my dark so fertile, how can it take such root?
The bird may fly, may fall; the sky is prey to day and night.

Am I so different?
The wind does not carry me. The bird,
she does not wait for me. But I am here waiting.
Do I have choices?
This morning I walk the road.
Dandelions are seizing their thrones without permission.
Clouds take hold, pushing into their places.

What is it I plan to do? Does nature have plans?
I know what it is I want. I know my houses
of worship, my temples, my holy grounds.
But where to from there?
The bluebird. The sky.
They do not seem to care.

How is it I keep saying, “I do not understand life” even as I am living it?