The average human heart

weighs as much as a flock of sparrows

this is to say —

when you sit outside

on that first morning

after the long dark days are behind you

with your eyes closed

face turned toward the ripening sun

listening to the bright blue bowl of sky

full to the brim with birdsong

there is a tiny winged creature

coming alive inside of you

still blind to the unseen beauty of the world

still a stranger to the truth that you were born to fly

yet familiar to a language made of song

a fluttering joy that scoops sorrow away

by the spoonful, mends the heart

so that it may grow back

into its wings