The fourth grade girl did not yet know the lesson
of waiting, so she gave her teacher, my husband, the bluebird
house she had built for her own yard
and watched while it remained unpopulated
two seasons.
He nailed his birdhouse gift to a little gray poplar
in our field and we waited another two years.
We studied bluebirds,
knew we’d have to clean out the house
for another family next year, if a family ever came.
Today his arm stops me, pointing to the little poplar
twenty feet away where blue and orange ignite
a branch like a match flame: a male bluebird.
The female darts out of the birdhouse’s black hole
and eyes us from another branch.
The birds hesitate. They scoop to other trees
away from us. They postpone their nesting
until we are well away, until
when?
I’m learning to wait
for the curl of satisfaction that comes
more often than not. I hold
hope like a pilot light
until the time
that is no time, when reasonless beings burn:
Now.
- Ruth M. April 2006
9 comments:
Very nice! :-)
The way you built up to the bluebirds nesting in the birdhouse is really cool! I'm glad I saw it in real time, but this makes it feel real all over again.
Nicely done!
Don
VERY nicely done, dear Ruth! Oh how very sweet :) I feel like I have seen it all through your eyes. A poem AND photos!
I love your poem, Ruth. So powerful and visionary. It is amazing how much we can learn from nature and the creatures who live there.
My parents had planted several species of cottonwood, populars, and such for owls. My mom is rejoicing now as she can go out at night and hear sometimes four different species of owls hooting and calling to each other.
Amy: Thanks!
Don: Thank you. Wasn't that so fun watching the bluebirds??
Ginnie: Thank you. :)
Gipsyingy: Welcome, and thank you for your kind words. Owls! We have loved hearing them on our farm, but four of different species at once calling to each other. That sounds magnificent. How did you come to visit my blog?
Ruth,
Gipsyingy is actually an alias for Ingrid, which I have written a while back and am a friend of Rachel.
I had problems signing in when I first sent the message and realized when I corrected it, my other name showed up. so if you see ingrid or gipsyingy... same person. Sorry about the confusion.
Ah, mystery solved! Thank you for explaining.
Georgeous!
Hi gigpsy!
Latest revision of this poem (but I think it's still not "done"):
The Curl of Satisfaction
The fourth grade girl did not yet
know the lesson of waiting,
so after building a bluebird house for her own yard,
and watching it remain unpopulated
two seasons, she gave it to her teacher, my husband.
He nailed his birdhouse gift to a little gray poplar
in our field and we waited another two years.
We studied bluebirds,
knew we’d have to clean out the house
for another family next year,
if a family ever came.
Today his arm stops me, pointing to the little poplar
twenty feet away where blue and orange ignite
a branch like a match flame: a male bluebird.
The female darts out of the birdhouse’s black hole
and eyes us from another branch.
The birds hesitate. They scoop to other trees
away from us. They postpone their nesting
until we are well away, until
when?
Until
the time that is no time,
when the curl of satisfaction comes,
when reasonless beings burn:
Now.
Ruth M. April 2006
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