~ To a Friend,

                from Sparrow ~

The gray and white mountain is too high,

    And the vale between . . . too far--distant.

    Glistening among the trees I can hardly see,

    What seems to be fluttering angel's wings.


I hide in the bushes and glance about,

But look and see, I cannot help.

These angel's wings lift high in flight,

And carry her away every night.


Scurrying about, from the bush I go,

Scrapping hard and flapping quickly--

Not fast enough, my fledging wings tire

And downward I go to my home below.


On the morrow I return and see her again,

Among the thistle, fir and tall pine trees--

These trees seem to bow in humble grace

To what seems to be this angel's pace.


Nondescript and too small am I

To behold such a beautiful eye.

But peek through the bush, I quickly do,

As if to look--just one more long last look.


Crash, crash--and the big tree falls:

The pine tree by the bush of my hiding.

The forest burns, and I doubt my nest;

But again to the forest I return to rest.


If per chance . . . by some fluke of luck

Or a providential smiling upon my--Oh, My,

That among the forest I might happen to see

Some kind of glistening of an angel's wings.


Here and there the ghost of some remnant past,

I perceive a feeling so distant and warm.

Without thought or grimace, I tuck my nest,

Spread my wings--off I am to continue my Spring.


Winter, Spring or Fall--no matter if I call,

'Twas the sparrow in the forest tall

That from the bush an angel he did see,

And with all fondness . . . remember will he.


Chasing to and fro, the shadow of wings--

Wings glistening among the tree needles so high;

I struggle to catch up, but not fleet enough was I

To catch or follow the angel on high.


His nesting does crackle by the creek side limbs,

And little sparrow ages in the new forest growth.

Unknown and whereto has that angel gone?


Through the storms of winters past,

Well beyond the winds of summers gone,

Sparrow tends to the straw of his crackling nest.


Reflecting now and then--the touch of an angel's wing,

Lifting high and higher into the bright summer sky.

How many times did that little sparrow spy?


Then on one long cool and brilliant day,

Up by the fir tree, next to the silent creek-bed,

Stalwart and sure, there appeared an angel's head.


Unsure and saddened, as if by a double-take

L'il sparrow ruffled, scrapped and crooked a bit.

Then with foggy eyes, he took one more good look.


What seemed to happen next--'twas like a book--

Each page opening as in a dream to belook.

Unknown and what-to-do, but little sparrow shook.


Then once the day was far spent and over,

     With one more kiss and a touch he did crossover,

     From the dreams of forests past to the present moreover

     L'il sparrow did wish he could repeat the day all over.

                                                            by  M.G. Maness, February 1996


~ Click Here to e-mail me at:  MG@PreciousHeart.net ~