Dawn Chorus

My first Easter
without
a congregation.
Restless,
I rise
in the early morning hours
to the sound
of the dawn chorus
pouring out timeless hymns
to the open sky.

In a borrowed garden
not my own,
I now feed birds
instead of people,
offering fresh water
and mealworms
in place of bread and wine.

Instead of souls,
I tend flowers.
They are
less complicated,
but the needs
are much the same.

Above it all,
where the cross would be,
an ancient tree
spreads its crown
of branches.
A symbol of life
unstained
by violence,
by death.

A wise person once said
that a seed must die
in order to give life.
It’s a nice metaphor,
but it isn’t true.
Seeds do not die.
They grow.
They are not bodies
to be buried,
but eggs
to be implanted,
carrying within themselves
all the possibility,
all the potential,
all the power
for new life.

My morning service concluded,
I leave the birds
to their feast.
At my feet
has been left
a single
white
feather.
Offering or sign,
from angel or dove,
right now
it is all I have
to hold onto.

April 2022
Copyright Diana E. Carroll