Birdhouse

I nailed my Heart
Low on a tree
Where any winged
Soul might see
A nesting refuge there
And come
And make my Heart
Its summer home.
An oriole of
Flaming plume
Looked upon the
Little room
And told a blue bird...
Who flew off...
It simply wasn’t
High enough.
A lady cardinal
Stopped and said
It wasn’t up to snuff
For red.
To fussy gold and
Purple finches,
It didn’t measure up
By inches.
Then wren-song filled
The tree one day;
My heart leapt...
But she didn’t stay.
A nuthatch and
A mourning dove
Were too preoccupied
For Love,
And all the
Nervous chickadees
Were just impossible
To please.
So when a sparrow
Couldn’t tempt me,
My little nesting box
Stayed empty.
Empty! Barren,
Cold as stone,
Silent, bereft of
Warmth... alone.
Empty, from June
Through chill September,
Time to think,
Time to remember
When my heart
Had been too narrow
To welcome in a
Common sparrow.
Was it too late now
To restart?
Too late to have a
Change of heart?
All the summer
Birds now flown?
The hoped for
Nesting season done?
My dreams were shattered,
I supposed;
I closed my heart.
But God disposed,
And one dark night
There came a tapping
At my heart’s door,
A quiet scratching.
It was a tiny,
Cold, gray mouse
Searching for a
Winter house.
It wasn’t what
I had in Mind,
But said the sacred
Heart, “Be kind...
To all God’s creatures,
Be open. Please.
Even to the
Least of these.”
And when I let a
Gray mouse enter,
My heart was full
And warm all winter...
Nailed there
Low on a tree,
Winter’s
Possibility.