From Steve Patterson: Poems at the Confluence of Birds and Awareness
All poetry ©Steve Patterson
Winter Wren
Now, this feisty molecule has something to say,
and you and the rest of the woods had better listen!
See the chocolate-covered wizard
bobbing its cautionary judgement,
every root and log a throne from which
spittingly eruptive proclamations
ban further encroachment.
“You must stop, sir! Return whence you came
while still you have the chance.”
“No, no! Do not call me cute.
I will end you. Remove yourself.”
And remove yourself you do,
avoiding the dire spell cast in your direction,
allowing order to return
and peace.
How can one not admire
such an angry little truffle?
***
Cold Friend Coming
The trees are finally bare, and
west of this porch they share
a Yellow-shafted Flicker,
screaming vinegar love to the
mid-day slice of white turnip moon.
Autumn now is full.
Let winter come.
***
There are days in late summer — August specifically — when your senses receive an alert that summer has already surrendered. Oh, the heat and humidity will return to fight on for a while, but for just a day, there is a ribbon of dry, cool air caressing your moments with renewal.
This poem seeks to honor that experience:
Late August Morning
Driving out, my day begins
without attempts for
recognized achievement
or dreams of praise and admiration.
My day begins
without the rush to beat someone
I do not care to know
in line at Hardee’s.
My day begins
without the humid, angry bite
of yesterday’s summer heat.
Instead, my day begins
with smiling air
that breathes me in
through autumn lungs
and blows me out
with whistling notes
of migratory hope.
My day begins
with the powerline meadowlark
as we share the thrill
of being tasted by the wind.
***
To a Titmouse at the Feeder
How does your black eye perceive this place
we live? Are you awed
by the detail of bark enflamed with lichen?
I hold my breath, simply forgetting to breathe
while I watch your feet manipulate
my tree, my yard, this planet.
Right now I would believe
anything you choose to tell me.
Safflower seeds wait
to be cracked against a limb,
and you oblige, striking
with the chisel of your face.
Earthshadow comes to tame the colors of day --
can you tell? Can you taste the adrenaline
of December’s midnight arrival,
like I can?
***
Looking Together
The one we came to see
was hidden in the marsh,
water deeper than it seemed,
glimmering soft sunlight, like our love,
deeper than it seemed,
cool and warming
dragonflies and turtles, possibly
unaware of each other but
necessary in the definition,
part of the message
growing from this place,
the smooth reflective surface
concealing so much underneath.
Then Debra found the Tricolored Heron
and showed me where it was.
***
