from my porch
I can see that branch
needs to be trimmed
before the next storm
the wind whips pollen into flight
graceful tutued seed pods pluck
the air and settle in random spaces
make their beds and wait
for bumble-bees to wake them
when april woods are red
a sparrow hops upon his mate
resting on a tattered twig
that landed on the outer terrace
they’ll probably build a nest
in the gutters just above
my bedroom window
and early some morning
before first lilt of day
I’ll hear a chorus of chirping
from this perfect
place fledglings
learn to fly
weather and time twist
everything
into feathered hope
it’s been a long time
since three young women
who were ready
flew the coop.
