Summer is a Cushion for the Spirit to Land On

I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City - Harry Nilsson

When you wake up to skies so blue
Sun streaming through white lace curtains
weaving patterns on ceilings made of wood -
The eyes are not yet used to the light let in
but are hopeful of a future certain.

The cushion that you land on -
escaping Delhi's summer heat for the hills.
Well, God is a funny thing.

My first morning home, a sparrow entered my room.
7 windows and I opened 6 of them -
one stuck from the lack of twisting and turning over the years.
Well, the bird made its rounds and flew about.
A huge loud thud, and would you have it?
The sparrow flew into the seventh,
broke its head
and fell down.

Toy for our dog Sandy,
Anguish for the sky that has lost part of its family.
Even in death did the sparrow serve a purpose,
for play, prayer, and poetry.

And like the sparrow, had I driven myself to the only closed window
before spring became summer.
Stubborn to find if my mind could break what had not yet been broken.

And yes, the body had died, on the seventh hour
who knows who the spirit took home then?
But I live on in my poetry;
in the soft spots of my parents' souls,
in the dragonflies fluttering across the gardens,
the summer sun that streams through your window.

Till the spirit finds a body
unbound by sparrow and sorrow,
tucked in the hills,
feeding on the summer breeze,
where the spirit finds a cushion to land on.