Monday Morning Musings:
“Can you fly
I heard you can! Can you fly
Like an eagle doin’ your hunting from the sky”
–Joni Mitchell, “That Song about the Midway” Listen Here.
“No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.”
–Billy Collins, “Forgetfulness”
In these days of gloom
dimmed dreary days
of November blues
while in the news, the hints of doom
constant, unrelenting–
but then comes the sound
and sight
hundreds of birds, in flight
this murmuration, a delight,
their orienting
so breathtaking
shaking me, awaking
all the wonder,
this magic, a gift
drifting from the sky
flying low and high,
they call in their ancient tongue
(we the earthbound
can’t understand)
and then they go–
but birds seem everywhere,
even in the show we watch–
where the crows are what?
Harbingers of fortune or fate?
Or perhaps they come too late
for our planet,
pale dot of blue,
so, I delight
in nature’s gifts
and sights
the morning sun,
the moon of silver-white
smiling in benediction
even when we forget
it’s there.
I cook and bake,
as the days in constant gloaming
take their toll, I want to snuggle
not go roaming
through rain-filled streets
Puddle Reflections on a Rainy November Day , Philadelphia Parkway
Crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge into Philadelphia, from Patco Train
Rainy Day Reflections, Philadelphia
yet, we do what we must
and so, I write poems with my mother
who only thinks of summer coming
her thoughts drifting through time—
like birds in murmuration flight–
Writing poems with my mother
and her eyesight
diminished, like the day’s light
her memories uncertain
confused, a twilight zone
of fact and fiction
but still we make her laugh
and try to remember what was—
hold mental photographs
of before, then walk through the door
to our other life,
husband and wife
we drink some wine
and I remember what I can
hold everything that’s fine
within my mind
and see the magic of moon and birds
and the old oak tree
glowing in the autumn gloom
remember how
it holds hundreds of memories
listen–
hear it murmur, murmur, murmur
as the acorns fall
in the rustling leaves of brown
covering cold ground
where secrets lie
waiting, waiting
for the warming sky–
and I dream
(I heard you can)
we fly.
