Afghan refugees—

only the clothes on their backs

and some songs from home

In a time of plague

red roses in a white vase

take the place of songs.

Little brown sparrow,

I have no use this morning

for your songs of joy.

On a desert path

songs leak out of the pebbles,

cries arise from thorns.

dowdy brown sparrows

singing creation’s old songs

anew each morning

Little granddaughter,

you were singing songs for me,

then the raven came.

Songs

Little brown sparrow,

you must know a hundred songs—

will you teach me one?

Why

Little brown sparrow,

why are you singing spring songs

with snow on the ground?

How many more songs

will be allotted to you,

blackbird at the pond?

Even though I know

every note of the old songs,

my tongue turns to stone.