ONE LEGGED BIRD

On the veranda one morning
near the French window I found a small bird.
I thought it was dead or stunned
after flying into the glass.

Then I saw one of its legs had been torn off.
I touched it gently & it opened its
beautiful brown eyes
& looked at me without fear.

I picked it up and put it beneath
the pear tree. When I looked again
it clung to a branch with its one leg.
Then it flew away.

That look in the small
bird's eyes - closed till it saw.
I was friendly and then they came back to life -
­I'll never forget. It reminded me of a lover's eyes

MOTHER'S STILL LIFE

during my visit
we sat at a cafe table
on the edge of the pavement
almost touching the traffic
going in and out of town

sitting there a long time
with an astonishing feeling
of quiet and repose
the thing I remember most
was the feeling of light and warmth

and the pauses and silences
in our conversation about poets and artists
the feeling not unlike that of being in
a hermit's cave where lions
went to have thorns taken out of their paws

I remember my mother's reaction
to poetry and "art-talk" - it
made her want to go "and scrub
the kitchen table." She felt
more poetry having the table readied
for bread making, more content

in the finality of the raised dough
and the simple setting of the table
so that it looked like a still life,
than in the abstract
geometry of painting.

---

Return to CONTENTS