I wrote two poems recently, and I haven't done that in a really, really long time. One of them I thought I'd share with you.
Starlings and Seeds
If I had my way, our days would only be full
Of starlings and seeds, the two of us
sun-drenched and content with our
Urban farm. The act of making things grow
Charges us both and you pace back and forth
Pulling weeds from the fresh-turned earth.
There comes a point where I simply sit
And watch your obsessively thoughtful pruning
And let the warmth of the day take over.
We have nicknamed the nesting bird “William,”
As he lights on the roof, hops to the gutter,
And shimmies to his hidden home
In the eave of our own. His mouth is full
Of insects and once he arrives inside,
The babies scream in jubilation.
There are no other days than this
That matter, no other way to smell
The earth on my reddened skin,
No other way to feel close to you
Than growing our food in a backyard
with a scarecrow named Ralph
Waldo Emerson and a starling who had
Once inspired Shakespeare.