I held you
frail, fallen fledgling
trembling in my palm.
Bright eyes locked on mine,
we lifted you carefully
to the branches,
to your kind,
and watched your unsteady legs
grip the thorny twigs.
And the harshness of it struck me:
that save for our being there
you would not live.
That save for kindness
your tiny immeasurable spark
would be gone.
Is that really the terrible truth?
That the one bulwark against
hopelessness and darkness
is kindness?
Which can only be volunteered.
Cannot be mandated or conjured.
Which wields power awkwardly,
gently, humbly, fumbling
its way towards love
If, in the sadness of this world,
the chaos, grief and bitterness,
this is the weapon we wield,
the shield we cower behind,
then we must be fools.
Or dreaming
And then I heard the song.
The voices of your kind,
the simple hymns,
ring against the darkening skies.
The sparse stinging drops
rattled the hedgerow
but you still sang
Not in defiance
(for what kind of weapon is birdsong?)
but in affirmation,
celebration, in joy
Rising inside the storm’s approach,
a vulnerable victory
certain only of itself
its nature and its belonging
And in the song
Kindness spoke:
I choose to be
Forever present
Forever weak
Forever available
Forever the choice
that can be made
but might not be.
Forever the last refuge
of fools like you.
And the fool who chooses me
will find, in my wisdom,
strength to shame the dark.
Don Lowe 