Birdsong
But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you —Job 12:7-8
I long
for birdsong—
and not the groans of politicos and those hooked on their politics
or the disembodied theology of the systems that hurt us
or the waging of wars and the grinding gears of the machines
or the glowing, shiny screens and screaming algorithms.
I lean
in, turn my head toward the sun and listen for bird trills instead—
because they remember what we have long forgotten
out past our concrete jungles and skyscraper vistas.
I bend my ear to hear their long, sweet notes,
flowing up and out of their mouths
from deep inside their thumb-sized hearts,
a honey baptizing this broken world—
at once a paradise and a curse, at once a cage and a universe.
I love
their arias, their harmonies, their call and response,
and what they strive to say,
and though I cannot make out their words, this cadence is a language
much closer to the God I serve—
so I will listen, and I will learn it, so I might herald it to the masses.
I like
to believe despite all that is wrong,
the cardinal, the warbler, the finch, and the wren
all know what mornings need at the crack of dawn:
to begin again—slates sung clean,
to worship in praise of what’s still good
without demanding knowledge,
to bring down manna—our daily bread...
“On Earth,” they sing, “as it is in Heaven.”
The Alchemist
The poet called it an alembic, and I listened, my ears pressed to his words, feeling—not knowing—exactly what he meant: Like how visions come to me in dreams uninvited, leaving me to wonder how dreams are distillers too, how one thing becomes another, more potent than the last form— longer lasting and more alive from what has died: like a compost birthing warmth, wilting wildflowers seeding fallow dirt, and the serotinous seeds of the sequoia tree taking root years after the fire blazed— like the Son of God arising from the grave! Is this resurrection or sublimation? I can hardly tell! I grasp at these forms the best one can, trying to decipher their meaning. But for the life of me, striving and reason aren’t enough this time. These mysteries stretch beyond.
Shedding Season
Early spring—cobalt skies glinting— the yellow warbler molts her layered feathers, anticipating the dance of life. Then, in summer—jeweled sun shining— the monarch twists free from her chrysalis womb, drying her dainty wings for flight. Late autumn—copper air swirling— the birch tree's bark peels off in sheets from its trunk, making way for her new growth. In midwinter—white squalls whirling— the Arctic fox shakes off his snowy shelter, having survived the blizzard’s frost. I watch them all as they weather these shedding seasons together, bowing nobly to their rhythms— doing whatever is required, so that something new may come through them —so life may carry on. And, so, I see with nascent eyes; I learn to watch and wonder: When the season calls my name, will I shed my skin in sweet surrender?
Kimberly Phinney is an award-winning professor and writer and the founder of TheWayBack2Ourselves.com. She holds an M.Ed. in English and is a doctoral candidate in Community Care and Counseling. Her work has appeared in Christianity Today, Ekstasis, and Solum, among other publications.
Her poetry collections, Of Wings and Dirt and Exalted Ground, were bestsellers. Her forthcoming book on art and faith will be published by Baker Books in 2027. A Pushcart Prize–nominated poet, Phinney received the Audience Choice Award from Ekstasis (now Inkwell) and was runner-up in Fathom’s Poetry Contest. She was also featured on Good Morning America for receiving a national teaching award. Follow her on Instagram at @kimberlyphinneywriter and on Substack.