O, this morning, not a cloud in the sky, and coffee,
black,the way I like it. I have been watching
a phoebe, dark hood and wagtail bobbing,
as he flits back and forth from the beauty
bush to the eave of the shed, just yards
from this red Adirondack chair where Iím sitting,
breathing the day through my skin.
It rained last night, and the chairís damp slats
are cool on my back; thereís a scree of frogs
in the swamp, a creek of sound in the background,
a river of desire: Here I am. Find me.
Felicitous. Thatís the only word to describe this.
The sun pours warm honey from its great glass jar,
no matter how little we deserve it. Some of us drag
a heavy load through the day, a sack of should ofís,
or push a bushel of sorrow up a hill. But thereís
the phoebe coming back with his bit of straw
or broken twig. He has a job to do, and he sticks
with it. And then he opens his beak and sings.
~Barbara Crooker

poems online



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