(for Leigh Ann in Sewanee)

The tiny wren perched on your hand
could be a key. Then
somewhere should be the door
that with a bird-shaped key-hole
cut by wind into stiff sand
must fit that needle beak and pinhead eye,
that tail's armed signal to the clamped wings,
Fly! Spring the lock! Lift the floor
from the earth, the roof from the sky,
and with a fanfare of trills
—no trumpets, no veils—
reveal the Quaker heaven where this bird sings.