Passeridae

By Julie Novak-McSweeney

We open our hands and bid the past farewell.
A dead leaf falls. Another leaf grows green
in the oaks where sparrow-weavers dwell.

Now is rooted then—but we can dwell
in other rooms, can play out greening scenes
and open our hands to bid the past farewell.

Trailing dead addresses, moving well
and often, in flight from numb routine,
far from where sparrow-weavers dwell.

What is home, we wondered, hardened shells
Of children that we were, quarantined
From pasts to which we finally bid farewell

And thrive despite, and sing our citadel
of roots into brave being. Unforeseen,
this blessing of a leafy place to dwell.

We broke the chain of violence, passed from hell
on earth to healing. Now the slate is clean.
We open our hands to bid the past farewell
and look to where the sparrow-weavers dwell.