This morning I’m all thumbs,
scrambled as my too-dry eggs,
twisted as my knotted
necklace chain; I drop a pill, lose a
thought, ill at ease with the garbled
verbs and adverbs of my life.
My larger world feels scrabbled too,
justice tangled in the skirts of power,
truth slips between fingers grasping
flimsy straws of status and esteem.
Meanwhile, a finch sits quiet,
nipping at our thistle seed;
two chickadees meet at the suet;
leafy branches glimmer in the early
morning sun; the stillness holds me
close, an almost holy sigh, whisper
of a somewhere time, God’s thumb
to wipe away the tangles of our tears.