“The Kingdom of Heaven is like a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field; which indeed is smaller than all seeds but when it is grown, it is greater than the herbs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in its branches.” Mark 4:32-23
The birds are waiting. Feathers ruffled plump,
They chirpless bide their time beneath the sun.
Though some who feel the warming day begun
Spread wing and from the ragged fence they jump;
Not really soar but circle circumspect,
The greening air so cool upon the wing,
And keep an eye on earth for anything
They might their homing instinct there direct.
I think they somehow sense I have a seed
Within me deep and secret, tiny still:
A mustard germ of faith that patiently
Is pushing, growing like a holy weed.
And while its branches twine beyond my will,
The birds are simply waiting for the tree.
Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, The Society of Classical Poets, Agape Review, America Magazine, U.S. Catholic, Amethyst Review, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, Pensive, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room.