The late spring wind crosses through the yard
and shakes the gingham blue
it draws the washing toward the coop,
then sends it back to you.
The coop stands close yet still the air
is clean across the yard
the grass is green, the children run,
the hens go on in song.
The sheep give little huffs in shade,
the rooster calls at noon
the crows complain from farther off
and call the afternoon.
I sit upon the wooden bench,
worn smooth by sun and rain,
the old boards hold me to the earth
and make me still again.
A little hand presents to me
an avocado pit,
he brings it as a traveler brings
a treasure of his own.
The sun moves towards the trees
and pours its gold on all
the grass, the boards, the weathered coop,
the house, the garden wall.
The breeze goes on. The gingham dries.
The crows keep up their cry,
as though the world had not been changed
by life begun nearby.
Yet petals fall; the roots go down;
the earth receives the rain.
The birds call out above the line
and do not know their praise.
gc