Come Spring

 

I saw a Blue Jay

fuss a black snake

off its gnarled branch

this morning. A fox

stole away with one

of our chickens last

night, and in a cardboard

box on the kitchen floor

Kitty is nursing her babies.

 

Skull Camp Mountain

is bearing again.

How the daffodils

brighten every open

space, bending under

warm winds; mountain

laurel and wild privet

play peek-a-boo

beneath a canopy

of maples, oaks

and sycamores.

 

I lean back in my

rocker on the side

porch, sip hot tea,

watch you fumble

with the belt

on the riding lawn

mower. We could

say so much, but

you won’t look

at me.

 

When

the honeysuckle

wouldn’t sing

“Hallelujah,”

I went to the

woods to sing

my songbird home,

but the melodies

fell to the ground

scattering like

so many spiders

crawling over Baby’s

grave.

 

That hawk flies

too close to the sun.

Its cry peels this

mountain from

the valley.

 

First published in A Way I Sing, Patty Cole