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
into feathered hope

it’s been a long time
since three young women
who were ready

flew the coop.