Let me tell you what I will miss—
crispness of January mornings,
first daffodils in February,
red buds of flowering quince,
birds gathering when the feeders
are filled: cardinals like flags
waving the others in,
wrens and nuthatches on the suet,
finches on the tube,
gray doves beneath them all—
and the bluebirds, a flock filling
the maples, chasing others from
the bath, blue wings flashing
against the gray of cement.
While there is still time, listen—
hawks circle the pasture, call
their mates; on the highway
trucks blast their air brakes;
a neighbor hammers new boards
on his barn; and the pileated
knocks holes in a dead oak;
the world knows no silence,
even stillness whispers
with leaf rubbings, limb
creakings, and last evening’s
rain dripping from the eaves.
–
Connie Jordan Green is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Nameless as the Minnows. Her poetry has been nominated for Pushcart prizes. From a small farm in East Tennessee, she enjoys writing, swimming, gardening, baking bread, reading, leading writing workshops, and spending time with family and friends.