Fairy Garden

Mom in her fairy garden. She inspires my Muse.

Come dance with me in the fairy garden
in the glow from the harvest moon.
We’ll prance in rings to the fiddler’s strings
under archways of silvery blooms.

The fireflies shall light the path
with lamps of amber and gold.
You might spy an elf, a pixie, a gnome
in the hollow of a tree trunk’s soul.

And if you spot the Fairy Queen
arrayed in a dress of rose petals
give her a wave and your steps will grow light
as the down of the nightingale’s feather.

You shall feel much joy in this secret garden
where the stars sprinkle dust from the heavens.
Where the robins pipe songs from dusk to dawn
and the wind softly carries bird blessings.

Bird Eats Cat

BackYard1

In the garden, a chickadee pecks at you,
kisses the ground nourished by your ashes.

Whiskers,
paws, emerald eyes —

now burned to a chickadee prize.

The tangerine poppies have turned blood orange;
they sway

like lit Oriental lanterns
as we look for you

in nature’s patterns.

Is the bird’s song sharper from feeding on you?
Have you fertilized flowers to a deeper hue?

Cattails rise like questions in the morning dew.

Rituals

We admired ancient Egyptians.
Painted boxes, families who cared enough to draw birds,
carry cakes and ale to their beloveds.

We did not cremate her.
We buried her like a sacred Egyptian,
tucked in relics:  a lavender heart, garnet ring, Celtic holy card,
the papyrus of her poetry, photos of her Depression childhood.

When the parakeet died she found just the right shoe box.
She folded its blue feathers in with toys and seeds,
painted popsicle sticks green and formed them into a crucifix.

All that winter we waited.

In spring the potato vine blossomed
and stretched over our bird grave.

She believed in rituals — even miracles,
spoke of ancestors clawing sod with bare hands,
turning over blackened spuds.
Their larders bare, nothing to fortify them but prayer.