This December’s bird count
includes individuals mislaid
or forgotten by fall’s migration.
One rears a late hatch
a second clings to a mate
of another species, a third
sings so long it misreads
leaf-fall for the rite of spring.
These poor few will quake
& slump & die over winter.
They will make up no part of
spring’s count. No one
save a stray god will mark
their loss, bless their bones.
We walk a slow three miles along a forest trail
pawed by game, rutted by melt & frequent rain.
Thousands of wildflowers spring from leaf-fall —
trout lily, trillium, bloodroot, dutchman’s breeches
noble hepatica, blue cohosh, early meadow rue.
Only near the end do I start to stumble, my eight-
decade-old feet beginning to flag, the rest of me
wanting to be stronger, to walk & witness longer
but also to be sitting back in the car. My brother
stumbles all the distance but pays age no mind.
My grandchildren, white sneakers caked with mud
thumbs now & again on phones, all but prance.
we lie scattered
like the contents of an upturned purse
his motorcycle stalled & steaming
the driver reaches
hot hands to noonday sun
I stumble to my feet
one child clutched in my arms
the other child in a bush across the road
as we were falling I thought
this is death, & it’s okay
because we’re all so happy to be alive
shakily, we reassemble
incomprehensibly, no one’s hurt
the driver rights his toppled ride
one foot peg is skewed
the gas tank bears a fresh indent
rainbows marble
the spray of gravel that spilled us
a rustling from the brush
yields three women sheathed
crown to sole in dusty black
squealing, crooning
syllables we can’t decipher
they unwrap hard candies
push them into the children’s mouths
then all of us, helplessly, laugh
the day darkens
until I can no longer read
I wait, my cat waits
a squirrel arcs through fallen leaves
across the yard into woods
until the day brightens
abruptly, as if
the end of the day runs backward
until I can read again
the moon, the sun
paint shadows on my page
what I feel to be snowed in
(ten inches in twenty hours)
is relief, I’m grateful
for everything I cannot do —
drive out into the greater world
meet others, satisfy needs
all these are denied me
I’m inside, warm & dry
the cats asleep for another
day & night, nothing
to watch through iced-over
glass, squirrels & birds
hunkered wherever they hunker
when snow covers all
my red car is white
my white house nearly
disappears, the moon slings
long shadows of tall trees
morning’s rays will melt
what’s frozen, woo what hides
stiff limbed, blurry eyed
bundled up (snow pants
fat parka) I’ll shovel
(sate my urge to move about)
even without somewhere to go
someone to see beyond
these forms caged in crystal —
time to set them free
woodchuck, whistlepig, Marmota monax
I’ve seen no fresh rootling since fall
the burrow holes — one north, one east —
lie leaf covered, ringed by dry rubble
yet my groundhog can’t be still asleep
not in this too warm faux-spring
when black bears are out, gouging
black smears across muddy ground
hungry to nobble the feeblest scent
thoughts of my groundhog energize me
— warm brown bristles, snub nose —
likely I’ll find him when a cat on a sill
stiffens & stares — look, life, out there
I too might well, with warmth, emerge
the twinge of discomfort in my ribcage
is medium sized, the latest new pain
I know some in my situation would call
a doc, & the doc would schedule machines
to tell me nothing or diagnose disease
so I don’t call, instead I ask my ribcage
why don’t we build a wildlife retreat?
collect fallen branches into large piles
where mice & moles, beetles & bees
can sleep & breed — my ribcage agrees
a warm March 4th, it’s 50 out, I pull on
cotton camouflage pants, a light fleece,
work boots, work gloves, a blue cap
by the third branch the ribcage teaser
disappears, I’m young again, I believe
my dead grow larger, as if to punish me for all
I failed to do, what I hadn’t time for, what I
didn’t know I needed — all those halcyon days
when love seemed lined up, ready to be taken
when joy could be enjoyed, then left behind for
the next joy — days of, years of joy with no idea
what dearth lay ahead when age would claim
its due — all you who died before your time
died in passion’s arms — Patroclus, Antigone —
you were not like I am, the living & the dead
We learn the truth about friendship
through the death of our family & friends.
Once the punishing weight of grief winds down
we experience the presence of the dead.
They talk to us, & we talk to them.
We not only remember but feel our mutual love.
It is not that we are strong enough to do without them
but that they stay with us forever.
They appear, observe, wonder, remark, remind us
not who they were but who they are to us.
by Taha Muhammad Ali [my translation]
We didn’t cry
when we left.
We had no time
no tears
no farewell
we had no goodbye.
We had no idea
this was goodbye
the goodbye
so how would we have cried?
We didn’t lie awake
(we didn’t sleep)
the night we left.
That night
we had no night
no light
the moon didn’t rise.
That night we lost the star
our lamp, gone
our share of sleep
not denied us
so how would we lie awake?
