| |
|
Hola, pajaro!
Welcome to my house:
Your house is my
house. The seeds
at the house you visit
any time are yours;
the firs
the pines
and oaks
are here for free—
finders keepers.
I’ve been waiting
for you, wondering
if you’d come again
worried lest you’d forget
or had lost your way
or before you got started,
back at your place, were dead
in a ditch, as every mother here
and there says her worry;
then after I’d said, they’re not
coming this year, forgetting
you’d come if you could,
here you are, your song
falling
like rain.
© by Grace Hughes Chappell.
Used with the author’s permission.
|
.jpeg)
Grace Hughes Chappell lives in San Francisco. She and her husband also tend a garden and apple orchard in Mendocino County, California. Grace has had work published in the Sunday SF Chronicle, the Anderson Valley Advertiser, theRichmond ReView, Short Fiction by Women, and various other publications.
|
|
Sherry:
I can hear this bird!
Posted 08/08/2015 11:41 AM
|
transitions:
Beautiful...
Posted 08/08/2015 11:19 AM
|
diana.anhalt:
As a former long time resident of Mexico I particularly loved the whimsey in the opening lines of this poem. Diana Anhalt
Posted 08/08/2015 10:26 AM
|
Cindy:
I love that song falling like rain.
Posted 08/08/2015 08:31 AM
|
Larry Schug:
Perfect! It's not easy to be a bird in this world of wars and other human created hazards. What if people had this attitude toward human migrants?
Posted 08/08/2015 07:53 AM
|
rksanders@charter.net:
Love this! I, too, have waited and watched for this lovely bird, fearing it would not come again--but it does come.I saw the poem shape as a hanging feeder.
Posted 08/08/2015 07:12 AM
|
rhonasheridan:
Beautiful
Posted 08/08/2015 05:17 AM
|
Katrina:
I like this, shaped like a bird.
Posted 08/08/2015 05:15 AM
|
|
|
|
My Cart 
