Only the tops of trees, the blue sky.
Sometimes a bird passing by. No sound
from outside; the window won’t open.
You ask me where I am. What I see.
Sometimes all I see are the words behind
my eyes. Sometimes, a book on the desk:
Life of the Beloved. The Long Home. Or,
a single sheet with that poem about
falling in love. And there’s Jesus above
on the cross, looking sad. We are all sad,
aren’t we? Sometimes the white clouds
billowing up. The flock of birds that
sing so loud I let them in.