Eastern Bluebirds and Purple Spiderworts

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The purple spiderworts showed up

on her last walk in the mountains –

Their long, dark green leaves

bending and flowing,

their deep violet, three-petalled

flowers wide open to a sun

whose canopy-filtered light

was prancing about the forest floor.

I remember it:

How she “ooed” and “ahed”

over these small, docile plants.

How they captivated her like

nothing else had that day.

How they weren’t going to

let her go.

So, her old friend said:

“Well head back to the barn, fetch a shovel.

You can take some home, plant them in your garden.”

None of us spoke about the things

the gesture presupposed,

though we all knew.

Yes. We knew.

The bluebirds showed up the

Spring before –

flitting about the patch of tall

grasses that she could

see from her bedroom window.

Everything about them

was oh so very cheery

and charming.

Though she’d never

especially delighted in birds,

she delighted in these –

Little feathered sprites

flashing vibrant colors

and repeating ‘tu-a-wees.’

They amused,

and distracted,

carrying away time,

and other things

not spoken of.

An old wooden chair

was installed by the window

and a brand new nesting box

on a post – straight and tall.

They were roosting places,

for awhile.

Do we have a choice in what claims us?

She became bluebirds

and spiderworts.

Why these?

Why not lilies, or a particular rose?

Why not the nestling rabbits

she had tried to save from a

marauding dog?

For eighteen Springs,

I’ve quietly peeked in

to count the bluebird eggs

one

two

three

four

five

and come to my knees

to tend these very same

spiderworts.

I’ve sat in the cemetery,

wondering:

When my time comes,

will I have been claimed?

And, if so,

will I know what has claimed me?

Will I have any clue,

given all the grand possibilities,

what it is that wants to keep

repeating my name?

Will I somehow know what is to become of me?

And,

most importantly,

will I have time enough

to speak of it?

Will I have time enough

to say,

“Thank you,”

through some yet-to-be-determined

gesture of gratitude?

© 2013-2018/Jamie K. Reaser

For Wilhelmina 'Billie' Reaser (5 March 1943 - 4 April 1995)

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" (www.hiraethpress.com) 

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