He shuffled slow through broken streets,
hands shaking, pockets thin with lint.
Breath like smoke above cracked lips,
his whispers turned to fleeting prayers.
The sparrows darted, gray on white,
braving winds that bent like whispers.
A crumb for them, a wish for him,
his fingers numb but finished giving.
The cold, it sung a quiet hymn,
a biting song draped on his shoulders.
Still, he clapped his ear and cursed,
then blessed the world in spite of ache.
May warmth find you, may grace unfold,
may your hands brim with summer mornings.
Though sparrows take their fill and flee,
may the good man find his spring.