Feeding the Birds

Three deer come to the edge 

Of the wide open winter woods

And watch as I press birdseed

Into the peanut butter I have smeared

Onto the soft fronds of our Christmas tree,

A giant pine cone feeder for fat little birds

In their winter coats, nameless and silent

But hungry and eager, launching themselves

Songless from dark safety 

Within the cold-pinched rhododendron

Onto food laden branches.  

Once you start feeding the birds, you can’t stop,

Dad said once as he poured oily black

Sunflower seeds into tubes for the yellow finches.

They depend on you, Dad said

As he sat down to a nice hot cup of coffee

With Mom to watch the birds

And talk about what to do next in the garden.

He loved the birds darting in and out,

But his responsibility to them

Did not keep him home. 

He took Mom to Pennsylvania, regardless. 

The birds found their way.

Or so I hope.  I have no way of knowing.

I do know, though, that the deer are watching me.

They know me from my spring- and summertime

Walks in the woods, when I would happen upon them,

Stand still, wait, and then walk on as they watched

My every move.

  I can’t stop, but I won’t move now.

I stand here and remember the lessons.

There are things to do in the garden

After you put your coffee cup in the sink.

After you wipe away the coffee rings on the table.

After you say good-bye to the ones who taught you.

After the deer step back into the woods,

Fading into the silence that bids you sleep

And wake again in time for the birds.

There are things to do.

Spring will come.

The songs will sound again.