Though pelts had long been traded across Asia, wings and feet removed, Europeans first encountering Birds-of-Paradise believed the birds must have simply floated on air until, like exhausted angels, they fell to earth.
You did not fall, dear heart. We reached for you and,
so surprised our human hands made contact,
pulled you down to what could only be your hell.
Bless us, oh beautiful bird, wingless, footless,
still carrying the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and greed,
for we have surely sinned, so many times
and in so many gruesome ways. We failed to see you,
holy relic, as witness to our own hubris, our inability
to understand that reaching was its own gift.
Oh, beautiful bird, we see you now and bow to you,
ask you to believe we of featherless form can do better,
can be better—truly and without irony—
than what our fathers taught us. We reach now only
for your forgiveness, understanding our penance at last
and firmly resolving, with the help of your grace,
to amend our lives and to see your lovely, still-living
progeny for what they are: testament to what we might
be instead of what we might own.
