I saw a Blue Jay
fuss a black snake
off its gnarled branch
this morning. A fox
stole away with one
of our chickens last
night, and in a cardboard
box on the kitchen floor
Kitty is nursing her babies.
Skull Camp Mountain
is bearing again.
How the daffodils
brighten every open
space, bending under
warm winds; mountain
laurel and wild privet
play peek-a-boo
beneath a canopy
of maples, oaks
and sycamores.
I lean back in my
rocker on the side
porch, sip hot tea,
watch you fumble
with the belt
on the riding lawn
mower. We could
say so much, but
you won’t look
at me.
When
the honeysuckle
wouldn’t sing
“Hallelujah,”
I went to the
woods to sing
my songbird home,
but the melodies
fell to the ground
scattering like
so many spiders
crawling over Baby’s
grave.
That hawk flies
too close to the sun.
Its cry peels this
mountain from
the valley.
First published in A Way I Sing, Patty Cole