the discovery, again, of waxwings
fifteen months since they flocked another house,
not nearly the “home” that is this place,
now, here, they arrived in this old tree with
arching limb –
easy pathway for cats and creatures to ease over a
fence –
false boundary that’s more like a connector:
“our” yard and the orchard behind us
… hospice: in service to ecology, our very nature
…
a neighbor’s dog, who we have agreed to take walking
a heavier likeness to my own dog, but no affection
for us
eager, though
leash in mouth tugging until she’s sure we will walk
her away
ball in mouth panting all the way from park back to
house –
she won’t drop it for three hours
I wonder at the mantra
… the sunset pale pink again: as if that is not enough …
baby opossum, too much like a rodent if tails matter
wild, secreted away under the low deck
sloped mud the clear entryway for mom and young
my adorable nonwild pet noses the
frozen-still-darktime-visitor
but can I find a place within my only.seeing.”other”
self
to honor their marsupialness, the distinction
afforded only to them –
in this North-of-Mexico-North-America
… hands on tree bark, furrowed: microscopic worlds
living in the passage …
across the street a peach rose
as big as a dinner plate and fragrant even from the
distance of a fence line
now another just like it sits on the kitchen sill –
gift from a friend’s garden
no scent but stripped of thorns
and now a single pale pink blossom in our front
garden
an entire bush in back with sagging limbs of white
perfume
… clouds textured and thick with moisture: rain
would bless a droughty land but the beautiful grays are grace …
Each day the gifts are ordinary but it does not
diminish their capacity for greatness.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2015 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
