I am blue,
    might throw a fit;
    upon me is perched
    a British blue tit.

    Chickadees I know
    and some titmice too,
    but this is different;
    what’s a twig to do?

    It must be a bird
    the storm brought along;
    even its dee-dee-dees
    simply sound all wrong,

    and I guess it’s happy
    searching for seeds,
    but I can’t help feeling
    a friend’s what it needs.

    Actually, I feel
    kind of sorry for it,
    for it is a stranger,
    this lonely blue tit.

  2. I think my tree is a bit grumpy. Must be a leap year thingie.


    And Then The Tree Said …

    Oh God of Green, give me strength,
    there’s something pecking at my neck,
    something other than this birdbrain
    poem about old barren trees & cold

    skin-pricked days & lichen knitting
    into my limbs, & hold me strong
    against this blowing back & forth
    & thresher rain that chops my knees,

    & I stand rooted in my lack of green,
    iced by hollow wind that flutes a tune,
    & now there’s a fat-barrelled pigeon
    sat on my gnarly twig, & I’m thinking…

    quick, be quick, & release this bird,
    let it fall like a child’s stripey beach ball,
    watch it bouncing off this branch, limb
    & twig, because quite truly, I’ll not

    miss its throaty call at all, so pigeon,
    pigeon, go be gone, & let me sleep
    until I’m smitten by spring again.

  3. It’s Wonderful to be a Tree

    Every little breeze
    is pure delight
    as I sway and bob
    under the sun
    a blue jay scolds
    from my high branch
    I just laugh
    at his grumpiness
    buds are swelling
    the blooms will be
    tender sweet later
    plump apples
    a gift from me.
    And later still my
    leaves will drop
    merrily to the ground
    then cold winds
    will sing a sleepy song
    and I will nod

  4. My Perching Friend

    This sharp-clawed beauty
    perches precariously
    on the end of me. His
    nails could use a clipping,
    chipping away at my bark.
    He has made this his special
    spot. Must admit I am flattered
    by his choice, and love to hear
    his voice at break of dawn. When
    he perches, he warms my old limb.
    I am bathed in his colors
    reflected by the sun.

Comments are closed.