Sparrows
- Emanuel Campo
- May 19, 2020
- 1 min read
Memories are fleeting things
like sparrows in the arms of trees
with mottled wings
and unseen sights they bear:
green mountains, clear streams
the fingered feathers of flighted
sounds, shapes, flying, switching
between the branches where only
some light can penetrate.
Fog may fall over the boughs
rest billowing around the trunks
and small sparrows may be obscured,
lost in the white shadow.
Yet healthy sparrows will emerge
as fog is pierced by rising dawn
and birds that carry sights will soar
from morning branches into afternoon air
and evening thoughts will think on sweeter scenes,
languages our minds have forgotten
but remain indelible to the soul.