BOP    Fret Not 

A flock of blue-black birds fly in circles, brush their wings 

against the glass wall…turn for a short flight toward  

the rocky shore…then return to the wall:  headfirst.  I fear 

blood-splattered panes.  Bashed heads.  Birdbrains! 

Fault-finding me, maligning barn sparrows scooping beetles 

and bees to feed their young. 

Fret not yourself because of evildoers; be not envious of wrongdoers! 

For they will soon fade like the grass and wither like the green herb. 

Mea culpa, St. Francis.  My mind mutters…maledictions. 

Because Farrah must return to gang-controlled Port au Prince. 

Because children in Sudan will have no peanut paste.  

Because scraggly nettles and thornbush replace my lupines and columbines. 

Because of wicked acronyms: DEI DOGE AfG ICE.  Vile verbs: shutter  deport   disrupt. 

Fury buried deep in my bones leaches: Why did Uncle John vote for George Wallace?  

Edna Mae and Vivian can’t practice our choral piece here because they’re black? 

You really think the Pentagon Papers are a hoax?   I was a caged bird, no voice. 

Fret not yourself because of evildoers; be not envious of wrongdoers! 

For they will soon fade like the grass and wither like the green herb. 

I am here at a monastery.  With the barn sparrows.  A silent retreat. 

A week to exorcise fears.  Not to hear: “love your enemies” or “it rains 

on the just and the unjust.”  Breathe. Meditate.  Ask for the grace of hope.   

Sing at the ocean’s edge with puffins and Pacific loons.   For mercy. 

No noise.                                                                                                    No words. 

         Space 

Fret not yourself because of evildoers; be not envious of wrongdoers! 

For they will soon fade like the grass and wither like the green herb.