by Jody Collins
Sometimes I guilt myself right out of
joy. Like the surprise of an iridescent
butterfly from an unsightly cocoon,
who would expect this shimmering
show in morning sunlight?
My eyes trained on Northwest firs
framed in blue, frosted feeders,
feathered presents hidden among
I’ve held my breath, wondering.
Did my mother ever ponder stilling
herself, take a moment with the
birds in her California garden? Gaze
restful at morning fog carried in
on marine air? Was she ever at
ease in her troubled
life, parenting us five alone?
I will never know.
I cannot ring her up to ask, there is
no email to send, no letter to write.
She is gone, stolen far too soon.
I abandon this feigned injustice.
How wildly unfair that I should gather
such beauty as surely she never did.
I will not leave reason to balance the
ledger, steal this away, too. The
feathered hum of heat, filigreed pane,
frosty view. I drink in sleeping green,
the fluttering avian dance, breathe
in the brilliant morning.
Surrender my second guesses and leave
logic to philosophers, welcoming with
wonder this gilt gift, nothing to ponder
but my thanks.
Jody Collins is a blatant philologist and poetry lover living in the Pacific Northwest with her very patient husband. She uses both gardening and writing as therapy, often featuring her 6 grandchildren, whom she thanks God for daily. Jody’s been penning words since Smith-Corona typewriters graced the desks of her middle school, but nowadays you can find her thoughts at www.jodyleecollins.com. Twitter: @JodyLeeCollins2 Instagram: @jody_lee_collins