Wren
There are whole days
that I am on
the verge of tears
and I don’t know
completely
the reason why.
I bring my heart
to You, God.
Where else can I go?
I set it before you
like a wounded bird,
then close my eyes
and imagine
You lifting it,
cradling it.
Or am I imagining?
Either way,
when I look up,
there is a little wren
on a branch
outside my window,
delicate and vulnerable,
yet still brave enough
to sing.
It’s a consolation
I will carry with me
into the day.
By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith
Thanks and enjoy the weekend. Peace, Sister.
Dear Maria,
Your words touch my heart and mind like my mother’s gentle hand on my head.
Our house wren has nested in a tablecloth crumpled in a deck chair. Her six eggs are mottled brown with white species. She appreciated our move to the other side of the deck, separated by a sofa. We are family.