Bear
Creek
Early
on, the best thing
about this mysterious place,
jungle of wild rose and dogwood,
trees spread towards the sky,
wrapping around each other,
squeezing leaves into a shadowy canopy.
Bustling jays and robins greeted me at the entrance.
I loved retreating bare foot to this place.
Trailing fingers over sumac, digging
into grass and mud, so much to
discover. Rabbits with
luminous eyes, a soft buzz of insects and birds,
even a black snake
sliding elegantly through weeds.
As a child, I was safe
in this wild tangle.
Now the mud bears fewer footprints.
This
summer, I returned.
Wild and thick, it welcomed me
with the heady scent of earth and sun.
Reaching the end, I grasped
a sprig of fire from
a nearby rose bush. I emerged
from the shadows into sun,
and there high among the poplar and dogwood,
a robin, trilling my song.
Butterfly
Bush
You
bustle, offer your
petals to weary flyers.
Lavender beckoning your
nectared mouth. What
have they heard from sky?
Hold on to them as long as you can,
they'll drink their fill, leave
you empty again.
The
Cardinal
Trough
snowed upon branches
shy in his glances, February's
only tulip, he springs from poplar
to pine, edging out the nuthatches
and chickadees that's warm today's feeder.
He does not like the others,
my crimson misanthrope
waiting only for pause in their chatter.
When
he descends upon them,
he's a spot of blood amongst gray,
mythic enough that the
small birds scatter.
Clutching a single seed, our timid
stoic takes flight into
the safety of the sky.