Sparrow Tracks
 
It's tried to snow so many times --
failed like church bells without arms.
Now that's it's here, what do I do 
but stand inside, too far away.
Here in a cottage conveniently safe
from minty gasps of coughing wind
where voices are lost --
then salvaged in the scream itself.
A hushing of cacophony
in soft white drapes --
and I am locked behind a door,
my breath glued to punching keys
and some strange urge
to capture a blessing I've 
never let under my skin.
Shame on my unwillingness
to follow stripes of sparrow tracks.
 
The day we went to war,
I was folding warm towels
on the living room couch,
watching it all through filters of miles.
The week two snipers hit DC,
I swept the sidewalk hard and fast
as if I were a human broom 
that couldn't reach the sticky leaves.
The day that earthquake cracked Iran,
I was pressing a t-shirt to fold in a drawer,
swatting a fly that tickled my arm,
buffing a hallway mirror
because a finger left a smudge --
washing dishes in the sink
when rivers of blood
were tapping on my shoulder blades.
Shame on my unwillingness
to follow stripes of sparrow tracks.