When I look out my bedroom window
at the catholic school across the street,
the sound of the bells toll from heaven,
their modern digital tones permeating the old
colonial houses in their modest majesty,
its metal heartbeat lighting down
on the leaves and the cars
like golden pollen from up on high.
The humble sparrows in the old beech out front
trill back and forth as if answering the one
in a language meant only for the meek.
I sit here, writing, and the birds outside
chant a mystical return to what matters,
celebrating the ordinary, as if it were heavenly,
and here I am, still trying to sound important
and come off like I believe in myself.
poems