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Mires and Wires
By Jane Tawel
February 17, 2026
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Some of us dig in.
We dig, dig, dig down
into the sands
of our times,
into the tidepools
of our minds,
into the sucking mire.
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We are seldom able to fly,
but like birds on a wire,
we are called to balance —
precariously, it is true —
but trusting
that not one of us can fall
without the Weeping of the World.
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Here, where some of us have landed,
poised with wings tucked tight,
there is no room to gather
that which cannot be eaten today.
But those who choose to dig holes
like moles and augers in the land,
store up their treasures
leaving their names on the inverted pyramids
sinking into famed obscurity
and drowning in the solidity
of their false hopes.
Poor creatures —
so richly mistaken
and shaken to the core
by the fears of their impermanence.
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I have dug myself plenty of holes.
But now I place my own small hope
on small movements of mine
fluttering, hopping at times from foot to foot,
attempting to share in the tight-rope act
of small beings barely balanced
in this singular time and place.
And like a small brown wren
I wonder how or when
in what future unknown space
will we, little birds —
(being now so often trapped and caught,
and bought — a dozen for a penny) —
will we at last be gathered
like chicks to Our Mother’s breast?
Here on this unsteady string of life,
we long for The Nest
and for the rest we once knew,
and yearn to know again
covered by The Father’s Mighty Wings of Refuge.
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It will not be by digging in
like a burrowing beast,
mistaking flowers for tares,
that I will find peace.
Nor will we know the love we seek
by running like lemmings or hares,
after any crown or prize
that we may chase.
We fledglings live encased
and see only through the cracks
of our embracing shells.
But incubating here
we wait to rise in glory.
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It is still the same old story:
Only by falling and falling
and failing and flailing
into grace after Grace
will we learn to fly.
And someday, we will see The Face
of the One Who has kept us
hanging here in the balance
between life and death
where the faith of small birds
finds hope.
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By dust we were created
and to dust we shall return.
But The Wind blows where it will,
and some will spread their wings to catch it
and will rise in flocked flight.
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© Jane Tawel, 2026
Jane Tawel 