Even The Thistles Have Outgrown Me
finally the honeysuckle releases its odor, now that the
flowers are nearly spent. and the purple vetches and
red clover, necks bent repentant as i was, their whole
spines as tho a wind came, that never went.
one must look both ways before trespassing; keep after
the scent. whatever it was the farmers sprayed to kill
them weeds must have got the warblers gone, and other
songbirds off and running, like a faucet at someone elses
red wing blacks seem to own this green of locust trees
which obscures the chicken farm from the streetwalkers,
even if woodpeckers happen by, or thrashers awkwardly
play thru the holes. as i near the algae pond i wonder,
will i startle the mourning dove, or will he startle me
this time? but its silent, just the wind stirring up the
ah, my two resident bluebirds on a haystack! kingbird
perched on the only bare branch of an actually living ash.
is it a catbird walks, as tho looking for the key he dropped
in the grass? id help him find it, but i may be allergic to
the poison ivy. my grandfather was brash enough to rub
the stuff on his skin. he bragged he was immune to the
he could showboat like that, yet be the only one to
never speak all night at poker. i rubbed my uncles shoulders
and necks while they played jacks wild until they felt i was
old enough to sit at the table. they took my money, dont
worry. after, i never did rub their backs for free.
unfamiliar song coming from on high grabs my attention,
i wait it out, come hell or hi. dickcissel, it turns out to be,
now theres an out of towner! is it the red buds now have
their seed pods hanging? round where the crick has dried,
some motion in the mulberries. best view of waxwings one
could stand, and two orchard orioles happen by! its plenty.
i walk back with no sense of time; absorb sun. nearly all the
wildflowers have been mown; i am charmed by what lasts.
even the thistles have outgrown me.