The robin has left her nest. She was such a brave, patient little bird; likely it was her first attempt at motherhood. Her nest is a perfect work of art: a primitive weave, a deep and noble interpretation of dry grass and mud. It holds only one egg, dull, pale, almost transparent blue, beautiful even in its infertility. The extreme heat, the neighbor’s fireworks — it must have been difficult for her. Hard for all the animals; for the veterans of war; for the elderly; for anyone with feeling and concern that goes beyond themselves.
In alphabetical order: bullfrogs (two); bunnies (eighteen); docks; meadowsweet; poison hemlock.
As it is generally practiced, there comes with naming a sense of pride and ownership; while that which is named simply goes on being itself. Meadowsweet has no need of its name. Nothing about a newborn baby says, Name me, or else.
July 8, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces