Where shall I begin…?
Beans
The day she reclaimed her old Spring nest
We made no bold fanfare,
Just, from invisibility over that
Straw grass mess,
Pop! That morning she was there
Those next few weeks I’ll not forget,
I grew to think her like a pet,
As I stirred my morning eggs,
So she turned hers,
Often would I talk to her,
She being a good listener
She, of course, never spoke a word,
She, who waited by my kitchen door,
Always poised, that demure bird,
Had become the mourning dove that I adored
After her broodlings hatched,
I dared only painfully, so quietly, to turn the latch
Then tip-toe, quiet as a cat, past the nest,
Stealing my way, out my own kitchen door!
As they grew, I knew,
Their time to fly would come around,
When I found, on my shoes and on the ground,
(this ‘ground’ here being the cement apron before the garage)
That which under birds’ nests is commonly found,
Beans, little black beans, with white bird poop eyes,
Imagine them the negative of black eyed peas
Then came the dawn, looked out the door,
And saw that they were there…
No more,
Three days later with a broom and dust pan
I swept up the beans,
And carried them around back,
The Beans,
Beans, from which no magic stalk shall grow,
Beans, to dissolve into the Earth,
Or for spare blanket, just the Winter snow,
Beans, upon old summers dead garden to throw,
Beans, though these were are all that I had left
To console my pining heart, bereft,
I tossed them away…
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