Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser
All winter, Mockingbird, in his steel-gray
suit, perches atop the tangled thicket of
multi-flora rose, swallowing bright red
rose hips and awaiting the next blessed moment,
brief as it may be, when the sun stirs
a drowsy insect awake and into a fine death.
It’s a rather odd thing to watch him in silence,
mine and his. We both have so much to
say, and hearts that have forgotten need translators.
I wonder about words pulled from the voice of
the world and words pulled from within.
Are they so different?
You give us the instruction:
Tell about it.”
I’m sitting with that, as the mockingbird sits not
far from my window pane, fluffed and
elegant, and fully aware that I am watching him.
And, maybe too, he knows that I am wondering.
It can be hard to speak without contempt for
this self-led world, but he does it all summer long.
And, I try my best.
What is it like to shake off shell fragments and
become the great celebrator of life?
I think the mockingbird needs another name.
And, I want to tell it to the world.
© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary" (a work in progress)
Feel free to share