Thought I'd introduce you to a friend
who lives close by. Make that very close. Blessings always, Pea
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            Decked by a Wren
       
A Carolina wren pauses for a breath
between hops and eyes, then dissects
me with a scalpel as sharp as the flint
in each brown-whorled eye.  Sly cut
that says, Dig the claws and the beak.
Wing struts made special, you know.  
Just means to open,  so I will order
my eyes to stay on the rail she uses
on stopovers.  Sensing she will wait,
I grab the knife.  My turn!  I crow. 
Suddenly she lets go.  Think she’s eager  
to help me prove she and I are more
than the female parts  scientists catalog
and park on dust.  Why we rebuild. 
Teach our children to arm and fly
back to March,  knowing full well
squirrels, spiders and mites have trashed
our nests.  Hers is a rusty red mailbox
tacked on an inside wall of a deck;
mine a dated house in need of paint. 
Spiders weave webs across our doors. 
Toxins seep from acid rain.  Snow, hail,
feet.  Yet we return to pick up, sweep
and lay cheap carpet.   Spread moss green
comforters to warm those who light.
Spend countless hours fixing, futzing.
Dive to the store and dash back to be
sure everyone gets enough protein.
Don’t kid yourself.  You’ll have to pitch in.
How else are we going to have a blast.  Uh oh.
Someone’s pointing her beak to let me know
she isn’t going to wait around for me to tie
thread.   Winks, grabs a twig, and shoots
her high-falutin’ tail,  turns her head to
show off a white racing stripe,  shakes 
the pollen out of the feathers,  corrects
for drafts, tucks in the flaps, and is home.


    (c) Phyllis Jean Green,  May, 2005