Frosted Bluebirds
Grumpy, sugar-coated
lumps of blue
have hunkered down
on top my feeders.
A late spring snowstorm caught them out,
hid their bugs and worms
and yummy treats
underneath wet, nasty
white stuff.
Now they sit,
puffed up, shut down,
to wait it out.
No, they won’t die;
I’ve taken care to
seeds and suet —
not the best,
but it’ll do.
And this will melt,
and they’ll be fine.
but right now
they’re just really pissed.
Spring Forgiveness
Spring arrives,
blows in,
and just like that,
expects forgiveness for
winter’s angry escapades.
Seduction starts:
warm breezes, scents,
the tender greenness
poking through.
Stop it!
I’m not ready!
We came too close —
held hostage
all those days and months
and I’m still angry.
So, no,
spring can’t just waltz right in
all bright and pink,
expecting me to go along.
No way.
Not yet.
Autumn Vignettes
Flocks swoop in
as waves of
moving, glossy sound,
all flittery and fine,
but spook and rise as one
then disappear.
Chipmunks
chittering away
go crazy,
race around
while stuffing cheeks,
fleeing real,
imaginary foes that
won’t arrive ’til
later storms.
All’s as it should be:
getting ready, storing up,
trusting that it ends. . . and that it does begin again.
Most days that’s fine,
it’s good enough;
but other days that tiny voice
breaks thru and whispers
“Maybe not,”
“What if. . .”
—Sally Fuller
Bolton Road
