Magnificat
by Mary F. C. Pratt
Under pine trees in the snow,
the chickadees around my head,
I wept for the will of God,
this hungry woman fed.
All the shadows shifted
while my back was turned.
Once and always on my finger
one soft and small gray bird.
Not a twisting
due to prayer,
but all its own,
and mine together.
And so I bear the gift,
carry it through time —
this deepest darkness,
astonishing grace.
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