Keeping House

There are many birdhouses in my garden.

Each year robins and sparrows settle there

making their temporary homes, some within

the splintered wooden structures I've laid,

others through chinks in the cracked white walls

of our aged farmhouse and some finding

crevices in the dilapidated

red shed that sits in the yard.

They fortify and fill them

with bits of grass and mud,

twigs, hair and clusters of lint

laying up a soft, warm bed

for their fragile offspring.

Overnight, it seems, these hatchlings

emerge from crackled shells

and begin teetering about,

testing spindly legs

and tiny fluttering downy wings.

Last spring I noticed a mother bird

watching them from behind a worn barn board.

I infused the image of her tilted head, her strong beak,

with pride and wisdom,

following her gaze as her little ones flapped about

in the grass and before long

reached the slight branches full with apple blossoms.

I imagined her feathering her nest as she watched

for wayward chicks to return,

peeking her head out occasionally

to see that they were still fluttering about.

When spring began to ripen

into the early blush of summer

I watched them soar and swoop,

calling raucously to one another

from the tops of trees

and soon, as each day's heat

blended into the next,

I found that I could no longer recognize

their familiar chirping chorus.

I paused, holding my face to the sun

envisioning them far away,

soaring among the clouds.

One day in late summer

I knelt down to water Shasta daises

that grew along the fence line.

I peeked inside a weathered birdhouse

which sat upon a rickety post.

Inside I startled to find

a mother bird peering back at me,

her bead black eyes reflecting mine

from within her shadowy dwelling.

I straightened,

pausing long against

the well worn fence

to ponder whether this bird

was at the end of her life,

if she had a broken wing

or if she, like me-

in the bustle and bother

of too many springs

had merely forgotten

how to fly.

     

 

Author's Note

I wrote this for a contest I want to enter. All the prior winners seem to have written about lessons from nature. So this is a bit out of my element and it almost makes me laugh how much I am mimicking their voices to try to win, but oh well.

Reviews

[Linda]

Wow, that ending is so true for woman that are "stay at home Moms" especially. We are so busy trying to do the right thing by our children, and then our parents, that we get lost in the shuffle. I still think that it is the most important calling we have though!! I'm enjoying your poetry very much, like I always have since you were a young girl. I especially loved this one about the "empty nest" and how it feels to realize you have done your job and it's your turn to fly now.

[Kristina Moulaison]

Gee! Thanks for the review! :)

[Petmeds]

...had merely forgotten how to fly.

Heart stopping

[Kristina Moulaison]

:) Thanks! I edited a bunch of it after you read it before. Thanks for reviewing. Be careful though. I'm getting spoiled.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

oh wow...the "forgotten how to fly" part...

what stops us...life is segments...we grow from birth in many ways...we become fathers and mothers...we take care of our own...and sometimes we ourselves forget to do that which we teach others to do...

sometimes we need the nurturing...i feel my folks in this..93 and 91 now...hanging in there but now being the ones i take care of as much as i can...they are no longer the strong ones who protect me...but i now must protect them.


jacob

[Kristina Moulaison]

Thanks so much, Jacob! Your parents are having a good run...good genetic odds for you. I am really relating to taking care of parents as well and what you said about us "forgetting to do that which we teach others to do". Oh boy... so true. I so appreciate your thoughts. Thank you!