Winter Pentecost

In the bleak mid-winter,

a sparrow’s morning trill

half-heard through muted window pane

leapt its way down my spine

in a quickening thrill,

melting the ice of my February heart.

I lifted my gaze to catch a lick

of sunrise flame gleaming

upon the midnight-velvet sheen

of sparrow’s smooth sculpted breast—

grace enough

to set my dormant spirit ablaze

with fresh-fallen light,

recalling to me our first Mother—

that Holy Dove who sang us into being

while it was yet night,

who from her own mouth

feeds us

with tongues of holy fire.