Finally time slows enough
for me to wander deckward
newspapers, snack, drink,
and computer in hand.
Flipped cushions greet me.
I invert them,
only to discover soggy
seams at the juncture
of back and seat.
In a rare burst of
spring cleaning frenzy
(lain dormant for decades,
but seeded by Mom
a half century ago),
I drag chairs to the
sunny side of the deck,
prop the offending seams
skyward and return
to my afternoon of
indulgence seated
on one, lone, dry cushion.
Later in the week
I return deckside again,
three newspaper bags in hand:
NYT, WSJ, and Seattle Times.
I determine it's time to
return the wandering chairs
tableside.
I grab a plastic newspaper bag
to dust the cushions,
special attention paid to the
prior offending seams.
From the corner of my eye,
I spy a pile of fluff on the
final chair, probably
a pile of milkweed
and leaves deposited by the wind.
Arriving there, I'm awestruck
by the beginnings of a nest.
The beautiful weavings of a mother
for her yet unborn child.
I wonder why was it discarded here?
What fear
or fatigue
or trouble
led her to drop her
delicate creation here?
I stare, mesmerized, memories of
my father's words, "Look, but
don't touch," emblazoned in my
mind from a childhood visit to view
baby bunnies in our garden.
Another afternoon.
The wrought iron chair is empty.
The nest has flown skyward
in search of home.
I long to
have watched as
the young mother,
nest in beak, soared,
carrying dreams and hopes
heavenward.
- Ramona Behnke
for this week's roundup of poetry love.
Thanks for hosting, Jama!
