Monday Morning Musings:

“Can you fly

I heard you can! Can you fly

Like an eagle doin’ your hunting from the sky”

–Joni Mitchell, “That Song about the Midway” Listen Here.

 

“No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.”

–Billy Collins, “Forgetfulness” 

In these days of gloom

dimmed dreary days

of November blues

while in the news, the hints of doom

constant, unrelenting–

but then comes the sound

and sight

hundreds of birds, in flight

this murmuration, a delight,

their orienting

so breathtaking

shaking me, awaking

all the wonder,

this magic, a gift

drifting from the sky

flying low and high,

they call in their ancient tongue

(we the earthbound

can’t understand)

and then they go–

but birds seem everywhere,

even in the show we watch–

where the crows are what?

Harbingers of fortune or fate?

Or perhaps they come too late

for our planet,

pale dot of blue,

so, I delight

in nature’s gifts

and sights

the morning sun,

the moon of silver-white

smiling in benediction

even when we forget

it’s there.

I cook and bake,

as the days in constant gloaming

take their toll, I want to snuggle

not go roaming

through rain-filled streets

Puddle Reflections on a Rainy November Day , Philadelphia Parkway

Crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge into Philadelphia, from Patco Train

Rainy Day Reflections, Philadelphia

yet, we do what we must

and so, I write poems with my mother

who only thinks of summer coming

her thoughts drifting through time—

like birds in murmuration flight–

Writing poems with my mother

and her eyesight

diminished, like the day’s light

her memories uncertain

confused, a twilight zone

of fact and fiction

but still we make her laugh

and try to remember what was—

hold mental photographs

of before, then walk through the door

to our other life,

husband and wife

we drink some wine

and I remember what I can

hold everything that’s fine

within my mind

and see the magic of moon and birds

and the old oak tree

glowing in the autumn gloom

remember how

it holds hundreds of memories

listen–

hear it murmur, murmur, murmur

as the acorns fall

in the rustling leaves of brown

covering cold ground

where secrets lie

waiting, waiting

for the warming sky–

and I dream

(I heard you can)

we fly.