The finches are back in the swamp maple
yellow sharp among the rusty ‘copters
Where do they go?
What do they know?
looping in & out of its springy ‘do
grasping purchase on diagonal twigs
spy-eyeing what I only imagine
What do they see?
When will I see
beyond this frame?
I joined an online photo group this morning:
“What do you see
from your window?”
Portuguese beaches, moose in Norway snow
vineyards on Carolina’s outer banks
fall in Tasmania, Moscow sunset.
Where am I?
What do I know?
What do I see?
Spiderweb around the edge, a pasture
there beyond the lawn, the street, barbed wire
fence then ridge above the river willows
jagged line of redwood green on blue.
For who? Where?
For you? There?
The one I know and love is here, her hum
throp-drop fabric cutter, foot, her bobbin
spins, the warm dry scent of heated fabric
fills the hall between us, pieces of heart
snipped, stitched & quilted all for Linus kids
her offering to me upon the bed
below the window pane where finches fly.
Where else is there?
A billion billion places
not to be.
Yo! Spain! Like Hoyt Axton, never been there
but you might like a distant redwood tree.
Romanians in the Carpathians—
Look! Here it’s the western edge of the world!
See egrets ply the wind among the fields
then count the snowy plover on the dunes
and pull the purple ice plant from the marsh.
Is this enough?
Within this frame?
In Capetown there’s a southern sea of hope
a friend in Rio pines for cool north wind
another caught in South America
struggles to return home to Murry Road.
Vermont may have the real sugar maples
but there are steelhead in the Batawat
across the field and redwoods on the ridge
swallows swoop and yellow finches frenzy
the day-bed’s made, the cider’s in the fridge
I hear a pause in her machinery
and we are here
behind the edge of dunes
beyond the web of frame
time to shelter
safely in our own warm place.