Even The Thistles Have Outgrown Me

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

expense.

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

fragranced vines.

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

plant.

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.