Sean Arthur Joyce ≈ The Sainted Bluebells

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The Sainted Bluebells

This is the hour
the sky opens her mothering face,
pale shoots yawn and stretch
awake, and no black spirit
fouls any feathered nest.

The chickadee sings
his simple chant—Spring’s here,
Spring’s here! and bluebells
announce their sainthood
in quiet flocks.

Crow watches me
with one eye on her nestlings,
done for now with prophecy
and eager to feed hungry mouths
hard-won wisdom.

This tribulation too,
shall pass. That winged voices
still whistle their healing songs
is blessing enough,
for today.

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