FEBRUARY TWENTY-NINTH, TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE

February Twenty-ninth,

       Two Thousand Twelve

Fury, destruction.
Mid-west tornado sirens.
Hopes of people smashed.

                   □

Mid-February.
A redbird’s whistle, signals
for spring to rush in.

                   □


Yesterday, a friend in the North Carolina mountains of
North Carolina reported she saw a bluebird drinking
from their birdbath. I sent her a bluebird poem I wrote
awhile back.

                Bluebirds Remembered


                          They turn in lilting flight,
                                   descend to
                            trees and fence posts;
                        begin gentle conversations.
                      In loose clusters, never alone
                                 as if they have
                                   a fondness
                                for each other’s
                                    company.


                        Always in my memories,
                             their graceful flight
                                 and soft calls;
                                     always—
                            they turn blue skies
                                   more blue.