Like clockwork the chubby bird sits outside my window on a barren tree in the dead of three seasons Six years of ironed artwork in live form begging grief drawn.. extracted from my soul until Autumn in Winter arrives with the promise of hope enveloping his tiny figure in glorious canopy of burnt tones No questions asked the singular bird patiently sings as the sun rises in bright and gloom And I, full of questions anticipate the morning view anchored in peaceful acceptance that I Am no larger than the One who feeds every need with an answer.. Wait. In your fullness of life. Wait. Wait. You are not a caged bird but a bevy of winged flight and wonder delicately honed in purpose as the fog clears rain falls snow blankets and warmth appears in seasons of comfort o’er confusion.. His clarity rises above the earth like clockwork...
Every day I wake up to look out my bathroom window and see one singular chubby bird in our barren Autumn tree. I often laugh and tell my husband, “there he is, my chubby bird.” Maybe it’s a she. I don’t know. I just know in the last six years, of my journey, a bird appears as anchor to something larger than this world — and sits for hours in that tree — alone. Something about it has been brewing inside of me as the weight of the world layers my skin. In Southern California our Autumn (or Fall) tree doesn’t turn color until December.
You can see the window screen in my photo where he sat this morning.
Like clockwork..
music: Blue Sky, White Clouds by Jon Opstad
A mourningful piece that turns each morning into Glory.
ox
