every hair on your head is counted

you are worth hundreds of sparrows

the tree you planted has become fecund

with kamikaze hummingbirds



wings of hundreds of beats per second

of people whose wings are just a blur

afraid our eyes might become impaled

by their sharp and tiny beaks



I'm so sorry

my spirit's rarely in my body

it wanders through the dry country

looking for a good place to rest

your head upon my chest

and I can feel the pillow of your breast



you are worth hundreds of sparrows