Song Sparrow

This new spring

flowers in hollow places,
golden forsythias hanging
azaleas lifting,
a pale sun goading

those next in line.

On a yellow day,

a year ago

I held a camera,

framed a bee

as it nosed

a bush fraught

with blossoms,

while just inside
you took shallow breaths,
the end furthering itself
with each exhalation.
Even then—

your body winnowed down,
carved like a branch—
we dared to dream of June,

blue hydrangeas,

the rose  bush I brought,

one cloud-filled day.

Staring out the window,

you spoke of September,
tempting us

like a warm spell
in mid-winter,

to plan for more.
But, the same way

a gale sweeps off

that giddy charade,
soon,

we could no longer

count time

in seasons, or weeks,
or even a day.

Somewhere outside,
a sparrow chirps
the same
staccato refrain
that pierced the

long afternoon
you lingered

in our world,
bird mouth opening to

eye-dropper meds.
I knew you were still
with us then,
how you listened as
we said last things,
the same way

each trill of

the sparrow

convinces me

you are here now,

have returned to fill

this vacant May,
your lips

framing a melody,
reminding us of

all that is sweet

about song.

Hummingbird Healing

After spending the morning gardening, I sat on the back step by the hummingbird feeder reading last weekend. One persistent little guy kept returning to drink and each time he did, he cast a shadow on my book.  So, I grabbed the camera, focused, and held the position until he arrived again. 

 

So, my dears. I’ve had a loss in my life.  My oldest sister succumbed to cancer on Friday, May 29.  It was long and painful and her death was one of those things people call a blessing.  It just doesn’t feel that way to me right now. I’m not sure when I’ll have the heart to write a real blog post again, but if you don’t see me here for a while, know that somewhere I’m writing, because that’s how I heal.

Blessings to all.  And if life gets challenging for you, remember to look for the hummingbirds.