Jesus and Sparrows

 

The air holds a low cloud  of smoke
remnants of dreams, stale jokes, yo' mama'so pokes
and  that umm-ummm-ummmm when she walks past;
the music squeezes in between the wiggles and the walks,
the cocky strolls, big hats,  and all the talk.
I can listen to the air

Then someone turns on Miles and it fades
to Duke and the Train, and I think of the last
song my Mother sang, just to me.

Was when the crowd gathered
in the church by the railroad tracks, on the Sunday
afternoon of bird sounds in  summer breezes
made for white ball, brown bats and green blades
as I sat; wanting so many other things, I got
the answer to a prayer I'd not yet conceived.

She pointed her eyes and arms upward,
to the heaven she had carefully made
by blessings sown in fields of Love,
and she sang, soft and sweet, of Jesus, and sparrows
and faith that makes mountains take wing,

the crowd rocked to rhythm, caught-up in her warmth,
and listened to the air,
as she sang just to me