Then the pale violet light of winter’s edge
flutters its wings on our table, sinking
in the night, scrabbling at the hardwood ledge.
We watch the fledgling falter, vanes shrinking
to shafts, to ash, its tiny blades blinking
back bright tears. We whet swords in its sorrow.
We part chains and bear forth barrels, drinking
deep with those unbound until tomorrow.
“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
Isaiah 58:6-9
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?
Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe them,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.