Free
Verse
Consider
The Bird
While my
grandfather repairs an old clock
at the kitchen table, I watch the chickadees
and bluejays flutter down from bare branches
to where a hand has tossed sunflower seeds
and millet on crusted snow. They flutter down
to scuffle with their brethren, who in turn
return to the tree, only to rebirth below.
The clock is ticking now. ‘our ground time here
will be brief,’ Kumin, in a title, tells us.
The ground is earth, of course—the branches,
a make-shift heaven. But why this greed-fuss,
when there is feed enough for all? Oh! but
there is. There's feed enough. ‘Look at the birds,’
who feeds them? A hand? More than a hand, I think.
So Soon
Our neighbor
bounces her baby on her knee.
I walk away thinking, `babies make us
realize how seldom we smile', thinking, `because
we are out of practice, happiness pains us',
recalling an afternoon at the homestead
when I was eleven, and my youngest aunt
swung her first-born in a canvas swing that
fit him like a clown's over-sized swimming
trunks. Cheerful little guy that he was, his
pure impetuous glee was infectious,
and though it couldn't have lasted long, still,
my face ached when I stopped smiling. So soon,
so young to ache. And here today?—nostalgia,
sentimentality, the rags of happiness.
