The Bower

I have seen an oriole’s nest; he weaves it as a bower.
And climbs inside where he can hide and keep his children safe.
The night is cold, the predators bold, and though they rant and rave
The birds keep their place, in warm sacred space: where wicked things hold no power.

Oriole, oriole, bright oriole! I beg you build me a nest!
The night, it is cold and the predators are bold, and sense my scent on the wind.
I pause and I hush. Do you hear? In the brush? And another beast--just round the bend!
And where will I go, my sweet oriole, as Panic pierces my chest?

The lanterns in the sky above are snuffed out one by one.
The moon is black, she’s turned her back; she doesn’t hear that growl.
Indifferent moon! Caring not how soon the dark thing on the prowl
Should come around and strike me down and rip flesh from my bone.

Ah, Oriole! Oriole—my Oriole! High in your holy Bower,
One last lantern lights the sky, enlightens me, and I know why!
Whom I have loved, has loved me back. In this I rest and die.
I see you Oriole and I know that yours--is the Kingdom and Power.