One of my new coworkers
I swear can whistle better
than God teaching the birds how to sing.
He lets loose his mellifluous calling
as a way of telling the forklifts,
I’m around the corner
so please don’t hit me.
As if I could ever hit anything
that can make such beautiful music.

But the whistle does more.
It takes me on sonorous wing
through the aviary of poems
that have been flocking before my eyes.
Golden sunrise scenes captured
by wise and understanding words
sharing the light of nature consistently doing
exactly what it was designed to do.

I don’t get much birdsong anymore.
The new start time is one in the morning
when most of the world is still;
the night dangerous as it can be beautiful.
And then I discover the grace
of spending breaks and lunches outside
in the day’s first brilliance.
The birds become the choir of angels
soothing an aching soul.

I carry more hurt with me now
than I ever have at one time,
which you might be seeing now.
If I’ve made you feel uncomfortable,
well that was kind of the goal
but I am still deeply sorry
for what is and will still come. 
It’s important to say that I’m not drowing in the dark.
Rather, I’ve submerged myself in it
for the truths only found in its oppressive depths.
Vulnerability can be the truest beauty.

I withstand it because of you
making observations of the world’s kindness,
still just as vibrant
if slightly quieter.
Human beings were designed for community
lending it such incredible power when we embrace it.
I am blessed in the therapies of poetry.

And as for right now,
a beautiful bird fills the mid-afternoon air
with her song of life.
How wondrous it is
that I can be here
to hear it.