I saw a blue jay fuss a black snake
off its gnarled branch this morning.
A fox stole 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.
by Patty Cole
from "A Way I Sing"
Published by The Main Street Publishing Company
No comments:
Post a Comment
We welcome your respectful comments, but will not accept anonymous ones.