Poetry | Beneath the Surface

Songs Beyond the Window

Learning About Mercy

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The four of us sat at the table,
in the home we once called ours,
its dark wood scored by years
of bread broken, voices raised,
small joys spilling over like wine.
Today, no one spoke of joy.

What can you say of endings
to those who look to you for beginnings?
I had words, shaped in the dark of night,
but they caught in my throat.
Instead, I saw a summer beach,
my son’s hand small in mine,
the waves curling in like shy
invitations, his laughter a gull’s cry
over the water. Will he laugh for me still?

I stopped, the silence wide as a field,
and listened. Beyond the window,
the feeder I hung last spring
was a small cathedral of wings —
cardinals stitching the air red,
sparrows singing their humble psalms,
a blue jay, fierce as a king,
claiming his perch. I thought,
what do they know of sorrow?
And yet, their songs went on.