I sit by my altar
I need the broom
it's been living
on the window sill
for a few years now

Small and handmade
from a local artisan
it found its purpose
cleaning away
my altar and zabuto

I listen
to my teacher
in the background
while observing
the lake
in the foreground

I stand
looking trough
a different window
I see the birds
the orange ones

They have been
living and dying
around the house
for a few months

In the fall
I found one
by the door
fallen
from its nest

I cried
but saw the others
and wanted to care
for all of them

I bought some seeds
and told the birds
they listened
and stayed close

Today the snow
covers the seeds
the birds looks at me
asking where it was

It made me cry again

What is this new
sensitivity
Am I dying
In a deep
depression
Or is this
awakening

They find some seeds
Fly to the lake
and drink

I don't know
what type they are
I've never seen
such bird

The ravens come
the orange bird leave

The are so small
and fragile
yet they can
open my heart

I need to dig
and find the seeds

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