I Listen to the Wrens

It was a miracle having arrived

from the heavens, the freedom

that me nor my husband will ever

see her face, hear her voice on

the phone or be haunted by her

again, and it filled us with a peaceful

joy that she'd been erased from our

lives. To think that before she had

been brushed away she would

come with a bitter scent, poison on

her tongue, her soul a tangled mess

of grey shreds, and where she lived

a bent path led to her door. Before

the echoes of birds begin to fade

I revel in the silence of my home;

my heart cool, like silver, now that

the one who had darkened our lives

for so long is at last gone. I thread

a needle to sew a dress, open my

uncurtained window to breathe

what the morning wind brings in.

If anything is to be praised it's

the heavens that make such miracles

happen; and now in my blessed time

I listen to the wrens, stand under

a spire of pale blue larkspur. I always

thought there was nothing to equal

a white bud except for today. My

heart, rejoicing like a fluttering

butterfly in a world that instills

kindliness and hope