I stand at the kitchen sink washing and cutting vegetables for soup. It is late dusk. I work in a small circle of light from the stove. I smell garlic, dandelion greens, leeks, green onions, olive oil. “You can close your eyes,” James Taylor sings. “It’s all right.” A white crowned sparrow’s melodic call comes through the open window, pure, piercing. A fullness wells up in me, that blend of sweetness and sadness, this fleeting life. I slice mushrooms with slow, even strokes of the knife, tears in my eyes.
My day off, I eat soup in bed, devour H Is for Hawk
Open windows, goldfinch sparrow house finch voices loud, happy
Together we savor this still-young year.
Big waning daylight moon
Full heart greeting
my mother’s tree glistens in the window.
At night 120 miles away my solar Christmas lights
glow and arc in the bougainvillea
silent and dear without me.
I sit at the train station beside my bags
cold metal bench at sunset, purple Christmas gloves
the almost full moon watching over my shoulder as I type.
Warm under blankets in the early twilight
cold air on my face
sparrows sing outside the open window.
The bougainvillea rustles, and
a young Cooper’s hawk hops out
hoping for a sparrow.