Saturday, March 19, 2016

The Carolina Wren

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

It is daybreak and the Carolina wren calls
out from the thick of old boxwoods that stood
around a log cabin and someone else’s lives with
a loud, cheery greeting that has defied the
intricate telling of at least two poets. 
They won’t sing it either. But, they know how to
pay attention, appreciate, and praise a thing. 
Anything. And, this is what he is doing too. This 
bright chortle must be praise. Maybe it is for 
daybreak. Maybe spring. Maybe simply the fact 
that he has a song when so  many have forgotten 
theirs. It could be that it is about tasting a morning 
seed, or little jumping spider, or simply that it is 
with song that he tastes this life. Poets can do the 
same thing with words. We won’t starve. Praise 
satiates. I want to believe that we all have some 
way of coming alive each morning and care to do it, 
to taste this life, and have the courage to say there 
is something holy inscribed in all of it. It’s not 
necessarily about bread or wine. It doesn’t require 
formality. You can be rascally about it, like the wren, 
like some poets. Guess which ones.
There is a wren in the boxwoods next to me.
I have a cup of  tea. And, I’m so grateful
that I couldn’t contain myself.

© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
A work in progress

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