Photo by Vijayalakshmi Nidugondi on Unsplash
Standing in the Woods
Look, mom! The little yellow bird is back!
my littlest one cries, she, who is not yet too old for wonder.
The bird yellow like a shadowed daisy,
bigger than a hummingbird but so tiny, delicate,
the size of my pinky finger, a miracle.
We hear a loud tapping and I say
perhaps it’s a construction worker down the road,
maybe someone trimming a tree.
But then the noise sounds overhead and my eyes
settle on a woodpecker above us, his beak knocking
resolutely at a slender branch,
his taps echoing in the air.
A mourning dove a few feet away from us stares at us quizzically.
My daughter reaches for my hand–
fingers curl around mine like tendrils.
Daughter and Mother Tree
My middle daughter lies on her bed,
head tossed to the side, squirming in pain,
till I push the warm heating pad onto her belly,
one hand on either side of her stomach,
where the ovaries are.
I press down, imagining I am pressing the heat
deep into her body to take the pain away,
as I want to with any pain of hers,
and I stay, hunched over her,
heating her insides
while we listen to a science podcast about trees,
how, the moderator says in her melodious voice,
different coniferous trees are part of the same genus,
that “the daughter tree” and “the mother tree”
belong to the same family,
their leaves the very same,
while I stand still, my hands on her belly,
my arms outstretched,
unmoving, stiff and heavy branches
trying to protect, trying
to cast the comfort of
a gentle, nurturing shadow.
Greetings Dear Bird
To the Cardinal
After Hayyim Nahman Bialik
Greetings on your return, kind bird,
from where you go in winter—
how my soul awakens in spring
when you return to my window.
Sing to me, tell me, my beautiful bird,
about where you go when you leave me.
Are you reunited with our lost loved ones?
Are you happy now? Are you warm and fed?
Oh, sweet, delicate cardinal!
So far from home, you faithfully return
in spring to visit me, to tell me
words about the land beyond.
Every spring morning,
year after year,
you tap at the glass of my dining room window—
a steady presence, loyal.
O sing to me, my bird,
Tell me the secrets you know
the secrets you never had time
to share.
Why did you have to leave me?
Why do you return now?
Is this your home now little bird?
Are you looking for me?
I told a friend about you
and she said a cardinal’s visiting
is the soul of a dead loved one
returning for a moment.
Is that you?
Have you returned as a bird?
We buried you, so how did you fly away?
And how did you find me?
I hear you tap on the glass--
I stop what I am doing and look at you,
See your little black eyes,
That shine in them, I recognize.
The last time I saw you I touched
your face and it was so cold, but
I left my hand on your cheek, until
I was told to step back, to say goodbye.
Greetings on our return, my dear bird.
Oh please, let’s sing together for joy.