“Neglect for the Birds,” “Birds on a Wire,” and “Curtain Call”

My hanging basket of geraniums dies

on my front porch, soil in a pot

surrounded by three sides of bricks.

 I leave for work, come home every day,

thinking I should clean this thing out,

put something new in its place.

One Saturday morning, I mess with it.

What are all these twigs doing here?

I pluck them from the container.

No, put them back!

There are eggs here.

Have I destroyed, killed

this clutch with my carelessness?

I put the twigs back.

I better not disturb

the silence from which they came.

At night she comes back,

left to get food, I think.

I watch her from my front window.

She sits, just sits—refusing

to budge as she broods

in her nesting box.

I see her leave occasionally,

which makes me anxious,

this neglect issue, I worry about.

It’s July. I’m out of school. I wait.

I watch. Never have I been so fascinated

with someone, some little thing being born.

I dare not even lift the twigs to see

how these four little ones fare.

She comes back, sits for hours, days

while I think of myself as a midwife.

Fledging, I read about, even the

things that can go wrong, cause death.

But am I starting to see feathers

instead of twigs?

Twenty-one days since she first sat,

I sit on my front porch, look

toward an empty nest, turn

my head to see four little birds

and mom launched in the trees.

What do they see,

perched high above the foil

of human desperation?

Are they the fragile,

or are we,

who sit in our high

and low places, longing

to be free, to fly away

when the wind shifts?

Perhaps it isn’t a matter

of freedom at all, but flight

perspective, like at the carnival

Tilt-A-Whirl, when, young,

we push up, push down,

round and round

we go—until

we take a deep breath,

start again.

We line up on the wire,

tilt our beaks,

take a dip.

The air currents steady

the nerves frayed

from constant change.

Sailboats speak to the wind

to calm the roaring sea,

surrender with their white flags

raised above the mast.

While the tide ebbs,

a drawbridge summons

the billowing clouds

to let the fishing boats pass.

The waves roll on.

Flying birds touch the shore

like surfers propel their winged arms

to ride the tumbling waves.

Men throw inflatable footballs,

like playing “catch me if you can”

or a touchdown in the end zone.

The rushing waves invite the audience

onstage so boys and girls jump,

swim in the ocean-peaked suds,

actors with the rushing waves

enjoying the show.

Buried in the sand, except for her head

exposed from her safari hat,

a little girl wiggles her toes.

The mud massages her body

in the sand-castle spa.

Beach-towel blankets beckon

her to relax, like fishing rods, mounted

in the sand dune, salute the sea.

Night falls.

The water’s pointed, silver-white crystals

glisten from the moon’s glow,

like fireworks explode,

a stage draped from the sky.

The waves rush to the shore to take a bow.