The first I heard of him was just a scratch,
Barely enough to register as sound,
And not enough to tell me where he was,
As if he would prefer to not be found.
In retrospect, I’m sure he didn’t know
Himself where in creation he might be—
As dark as any dark he’d ever seen,
Too dark to find his way out to be free.
All that was left for him to do was scratch,
And none could fault the effort that he gave,
But for all he did his best, he was doomed,
And all his patient scratching couldn’t save.
Except . . . I heard him, by some miracle,
And after some detective work I found
He’d tumbled down into my waterspout
(On a dry day, or he’d have surely drowned).
Of course, I quickly got him out of there,
While thinking to myself how kind I was,
But then I saw him face to face and smiled—
A little ball of blue feathers and fuzz,
As beautiful as anything I’ve seen,
Stared up at me with little beady eyes.
‘Twas just a little bluebird, some might say,
But I saw heaven working in disguise.
How often have I been myself entrapped
By circumstances beyond my control?
Or by decisions I alone have made
That threaten to bind up my simple soul?
I still long for the day I think will come
When Someone hears me scratching as I hide
In darkness I fell into on my own
And comes to free the beauty trapped inside.
