Maybe nesting in the pile of potholders
in the kitchen drawer that’s always slamming,
between the crying child, the simmering pots.
Someone’s at the door, there’s a knocking,
selling siding, asking if I’m saved.
I’ve seen a painting of Jesus
knocking at a door,
but it can only be opened
from the inside. Maybe the words
hide in the roofing brochure,
the Watchtower magazine,
or right outside under the doormat. Actually,
there’s the word – WELCOME – welcome friends,
welcome strangers, welcome Jesus, bounty, hardship,
welcome everything that’s crossed
the threshold of this place. The words are in
and out and all around, everywhere I look,
in the baby sparrow’s throat
in the nest in the bush right outside the door,
not yet ready to fly but ready to sing.