Layered

I glance at the dead squirrel by the curb
and think of sparrows …
falling.
God sees the little sparrow fall,
It meets His tender view;
If God so loves the little ones,
I know He loves me, too.

We are layered, like the crumbling red rock
cliffside with paths
by the creek of my childhood,
like the flat chunks of 
shale scavenged by my parents 
to create the high backyard wall.

We are layered,
DNA and birth order threaded through
the earth of our birthplace,
the winds and rains of our times,
the maps our minds draw
to trace our path to the barriers
that contain us.

We are layered
wearing rock-filled backpacks
we strain blindly to reach into,
trying to pull out 
the easy changes hidden
and twinned with
the deep-rooted invasive
infective twists.

We are layered:
the work of living
tripping us, shackling
our hopes for freedom
and joy,
as we pray for the tender view
of a sparrow-watching God.