Consider the bird adrift in the morning air—
a sparrow, sister, gibbering out a testament
with the same cackle and trill of your text
messages—how everything goes upside down,

how you want to be a sparrow of testament,
but daylight comes with its accusations and dread.
The message I write: Stay up, sister. Don’t get down.
The sparrow persists, and you give me a perfunctory
 
thanks, but daylight company comes to accuse you
back to childhood, how we listened to the birds,
and the sparrow persisted, like mother perfunctory
in the kitchen—how she moved like thunder.

Bang! adulthood hits like a left hook from the birds.
Once we were kids: I shared my Reese’s with you
in the kitchen—how we speckled our blood with sugar.
Suddenly, we’re gone beyond what we can change.

And then, we were grown: I passed a narcotic bouquet
—how a few moments make most of time.
Now, we’re known: I confess my regret to you.
The birdsong fades in a branch-tangled blue sky.

Dear sister, time will give you a few moments.
Recall the sparrow, the lilies peeking out of spring.
The birdsong can untangle your worry to the blue sky.
Look at the lily, sister: she toils not, neither does she spin.