What Can a Robin Hatch?

What Can a Robin Hatch?

A robin sits in the Rowan tree,

waits for snow to cease,

sings of spring warmth and resurrection.

Robin with breast the colour of blood,

morning’s first singer,

and evening’s last song,  final good night.

You’ll soon be a broody mama,

warm the pale blue eggs

a fortnight,  hatch a clutch of babies.

Next, you’ll be a broody mama,

to hatch death’s virus,

incubate disease and brain fever.

You beauty, and handmaid of illness,

breast the shade of blood,

the colour of mosquito belly,

because it kills you slowly, you live

longer, infection

spreads further.   You generous beauty,

bird of life and death.

NOTE:  Robins can be carriers of West Nile Virus.  The virus kills robins more slowly than blue jays or crows, so robins can spread the virus more widely.  The virus is transferred from robin to mosquito to human.  West Nile Virus can cause fatal inflammation of the brain (encephalitis) or the membranes that cover the brain or spinal cord (meningitis).  Milder reactions to West Nile Virus are not fatal but cause fever, headache, body aches, skin rash and swollen lymph glands.

It seems hard to believe that something as lovely as a robin sitting in a snowstorm has the potential to become a link in a chain of disease, doesn't it?

Easter Weekend

My yard was full of bunnies,

bunny boys and

and bunny girls,

all playing Easter games.

Then Easter Sunday brought a surprise of snow.

The only creature outside was a robin

snuggled for shelter in a barberry bush.

Photos are mine.

Easter and Springtime

Easter and Springtime

Mud heaves back blankets
of worn snow, stretches,
then belly-belches
the tang of dog turds.

Then Spring rises, pulls on
a fresh shirt
of buds and blue sky,
yawns, and sends the sap
swelling, hearts searching.

Rituals of love:
Trill or squawk
          Look at me
pheasants chase
          Hey, choose me
mallards hiss
          She is mine
starlings wear
their very best
mating feathers
          Hey, baby,
          ain't I fine?

The fuse ignites
creating life.
From Love's promise,
dead forests green.

And we feel it too,
this rising Easter,
fresh hope in our veins.

Photo is mine.

Starlings

Here are shots of starlings sporting their mating plumage.  The single bird photos are the female. 

It's the time of year for love so there's preening and courting, in our yard.

Photos and words are mine.

Tree Moss Magic

Tree Moss Magic

Fairies weave tree moss at night.

I knew that when I was six.  I knew that fairy-folk knit threads of green felt into webs of tree moss, while I slept.  The fairies made lace and nests and cradle-swings and fastened them to trees.   Glittering, dew-covered, delicate, pale green…obviously these were created by the fairies, these were magic.

Some say that tree moss results from the damp and shady conditions found in coastal forests like those on the eastern shore of New Brunswick.  They claim moss requires dampness, a high level of moisture for the vascular system to survive and requires liquid to complete fertilisation.  Tree moss shows appreciation for wetness by growing best on the north side of tree trunks, the upper parts of branches and in the shadier crotches of trees.  That is what we think when we lose imagination. 

But when the sight of wobbly green draping from trees draws me back to childhood, I remember that this is where I found magic.  There is magic in maple blossoms, in the curve of an acorn, in the new green at the tips of conifers, in the mushroomed decay of stumps and in the spongy clumps of ground moss sprouting spring violets.  Children know what adults have forgotten.

Cross the driveway, jump over the ditch, scramble through the alders that clutch like witches’ fingers and escape deep into the forest of birch and maple and evergreens.   Search for the place of winter deadfall, a clearing, an open space.  Here it is.  Leaves become dishes.  Twigs and branches become utensils and brooms.  Rocks and logs are seats and tables.  And moss, moss can be anything—cushions, decorations, food, stuffing for cracks in tables; moss can be fairy magic.

To play in a secluded wood, with sunlight slanting through the canopy of trees, to hear birdsong and the burbling ditch, to breathe balsam and damp earth, to gaze in wonder at pale moss dangling from trees, that is mystery, full of possibility and magic. 

A child of six no more, at ten times six, l still smile when I discover tree moss. 

I smile and a thought flickers, “Ah, the fairy-folk were weaving cradles and nests, while I slept.”

Photos and words are mine.

Tree Moss

Tree Moss

At night

under the mossy trees,

when the thin green felt

is held by darkness,

I see the silhouettes of lace.

My grandmother used to make,

Heirloom lace, Broomstick lace,

delicate and fine.

Slow work.

Morning comes.

The sea air kisses the trees

and wraps them in fog-wool

and damp desire.

And lace, pale green,

nourished by mist

blooms from tree crotch and branches.

Swaying,

slow nests of moss

(knit from whisper and shadow and dream)

begin as all life begins,

in the embrace

of dampness.

Photos and words are mine.

Moky, Three Years

Though I’ve never met her, sometimes I feel I knew her. 


Moky died three years ago on April 1st.  I never met her, but I have met her children, two daughters and a son.  Through them, I’ve learned about Moky.


Moky was brilliant, creative, thrifty, witty and occasionally acerbic.  She loved her garden and being outdoors, had a keen sense of justice and a wicked sense of humour, intolerance for bad art, a taste for good sherry and cheap wine. 


Moky was generous, recognized potential in discarded furniture, loved the colour blue, appreciated ballet and treasured adventure…whether within her neighbourhood or travelling afar.  She revered and supported libraries, loved old movies and great musical classics.


Moky was a strong woman, given to strong opinions easily shared. 


She welcomed the neighbourhood into her home every Christmas for a party.  What a party it was!   Food and wine, plentiful and delicious, vibrant music and shared song. 


Moky loved her children above all else, as in turn her daughters and son love theirs.   Moky will always be in the hearts and lives of her three children and their spouses, and her five grandchildren, soon to become six.


I never met Moky. 


Oh, how I wish I had.

 

This is an update of a blog I wrote last year about Moky.   May memories comfort and hold you Maggie, Sarah and Tim.