The Meadow 97 Two Months After Mailing the Poem About Her Eyes Jordan Lee Mumm I found a bluebird Dead in the sand In the olive grove. The monks drifted From tree to tree, Trimming the twisted branches. The snapping sound of wood and shears Overwhelmed their whispered prayers. The desert sun scorched My skin, and sweat Gathered in my beard. Shimmering mosaic icons watched From the chapel’s outer walls, As I imagined myself one of the brothers In the dark robes, the silent simplicity. The vows I would make, to be so gentle. When her azure feathers Caught my eye I paused from the work. A contrast to the orange Of the Arizona dirt, her bright wings Seemed like a piece of fallen sky. This was not where she belonged On the ground, low and broken. I could not pray Looking at death This sorrow, this fall. She would fade away soon Shrink into the ground and disappear. And the sweet song she carried That I might’ve heard before A voice, which now, I would not know.
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