Today is one month since my son left the earth
How can life just move on like nothing happened?
I am still reeling and trying to accept this as reality
while the days keep marching on and it feels WRONG
It takes so much energy to just function, some things
that mean a lot to me have been lost in the process
I have literally lost a part of myself
Today is one month since my life fractured and
I AM not ok, but God is holding us both
and for that, I am grateful
Call it a ministry of motion,
this bird-feeder, perched not on shepherd’s hook
but on the hip of an old satellite pole—
relic of a time when we pointed our plates to the sky
for news, for signal, for a bit of the world.
Now, we tune to a wilder channel,
my phone ringing like a town crier—
“Visitor at the feeder!”—each new wing and whisker
a headline in my hand,
reminding me that hope returns,
sometimes feathered, sometimes furred.
The squirrel is the first to arrive—
an unscheduled broadcast, a local legend,
his belly so plump and proud I swear
he grows by the gigabyte, swelling
with the hush of stolen seed.
He stretches, he dangles,
gravity and greed in a furry suit,
filling himself on this broadcast buffet—
each day a little rounder,
his audacity making me laugh,
even as the ration for the others runs thin.
Still, the birds make their entrance:
A cardinal—a flare, a fire, a stanza—
wearing red like an anthem.
Red-winged blackbird, soldiering in with flags
on his shoulders, the herald of rain and revolution.
Eastern bluebird, soft-spoken, blue as the dream
we thought we’d lost.
House finch, black-capped chickadee—
every note in this backyard symphony,
each arrival announced with a ping,
a reminder: we are still tuned in
to the ordinary miracles, the untelevised grace.
Sometimes, a pine grosbeak lands, rare as rain in July,
and the Carolina wren, bold in brown,
steps out like a secret finally spoken.
All of them come, again and again,
proof that beauty doesn’t need a password or a promise,
just a place to land,
a feeder on a post outliving its original purpose,
technology reborn as sanctuary.
Yet, in all this plenty, I wait
for the mockingbird—my favorite—
with his bright white stripes
that flash like punctuation in flight,
his chorus of borrowed songs
an aria stitched from memory and longing.
I scan the feed, hoping for that flash,
that mimic’s voice turning dusk to opera—
but no ping comes for him,
not yet. And so, a hush,
a small ache among the joy,
a silent spot in the broadcast
where I send my hope skyward:
May he find this feeder soon.
May he know there’s a place here
for every song—
especially the ones we’re waiting to hear.
I watch it all, the world visiting me—
a live feed, a newscast,
a poem arriving on wings and paws—
and I understand:
Progress is not just what we invent,
but what we invite.
And hope is a signal that keeps coming back,
growing stronger,
one unexpected visitor at a time.
When Birnam Wood marched on Dunsinane,
Was it merely a disguise used by men?
Or was it a commentary,
On the way it’s always been?
I’ve noticed a steady creeping,
In the greenery around my place,
And it seems that I’m under siege,
As they advance in steady pace.
Oaks, cedars and maples,
That I’m sure were not there last year,
Reach out for me with grasping limbs,
And haunt my waking fears.
It is a constant battle,
To keep the brush back from my door,
As I arm myself with implements,
And books of herbal lore.
The walnuts stand so stately,
As they form their martial ranks,
Locusts armed with spiky thorns,
Adorn eroded banks.
They speak to me of a battle,
That was begun before I came,
As they march to take back the land,
With perhaps the better claim.
I look over worn out fields,
And think it’s time for truce,
The advancing trees assure me,
They can repair the tenant farmer’s abuse.
In our tacit agreement,
Upon each other’s boundaries,
I still find in my hay fields,
Advance scouts of the trees.
I know I must remove them,
Though I know that ‘tis a shame,
And I hope the watching sentinels,
Are judicious with their blame.
I have a love for growing things,
And they do improve my place,
And I understand that a weed,
Is only a plant that’s out of place.
And I understand that “place”,
Is an arbitrary line,
Which says over there is for the forest,
While this bit of land is mine.
I may keep it and use,
As I think best,
But the trees watch in stalwart silence,
For the day when I shall rest.
The timber is resilient,
And while they may be forestalled,
They know that fewer such as I,
Are upon the land installed.
And I know there will come a day,
When I must bow to defeat,
Leaves will be my blanket,
And roots my winding sheet.
And the trees will refrain from gloating,
At their victory in the end,
They will cover me and shade me,
And say well met my friend.
A shot of adrenalin, 3 a.m.
I stew for hours in the dark,
brain squeezing wrath into a rock.
Humanity’s feet swing helplessly
in the gallows of my chest.
I’m overcome by spectacle,
a unified world split in two
with a bloody axe of lies.
the border, farther
than any man dares to see,
through trellising moss, all
the way to shrill farrows of
Mary stretched like dew along
toddling
river
rocks
see the little two flit
and splash, kicking
and flapping and looking
to me like they know
the best thing to do
on a morbid hot day
when everything
presses against you
and you feel time as an
illusion alluding to
your eventual end
and why does it matter
anyway because our hand
basket is gaining speed
is shake it off
in this place together
while I, inside these
pristine walls, wonder
from my window
do they know or
do they even care
(or do they possibly prefer)
it’s dirt?
—————————————————
– From To Be of Use by Marge Piercy
