There comes a tipping point in the year
when the summer birds have all gone,
and the winter birds that had retreated
like glaciers into the leafy woods
show up again at the backyard feeders,
looking proprietary and quite pleased.
Once again, close at hand,
the chickadee flits past on stubby wings,
the nuthatch creeps head first down the trees,
the junco flashes his semaphore tail,
the cardinal poses for greeting cards
and the blue jay argues with everyone else.
Then they settle themselves in the balding trees
with an air of practicality and triumph
and promise in voices mostly unmelodious,
but beloved as schoolyard…
Perfection is illusive as a shimmering mirage;
yet we strive for it, ignoring the wisdom of our hearts.
How many vibrant poems and songs still remain unsung,
robbed of life and passion before they have begun?
The quest for perfection mistakes mere brass for gold,
resulting in many a brilliant tale left untold.
So let’s remove perfection from our daily quest,
and nurture instead our talents at their very best.
October is a crayon box
when seen through a child’s eyes.
all the cleanest colors:
clear blue for the sky,
red and yellow for the leaves.
And for the pines,
the brightest green.
A child’s drawing
carried home with pride
to pin on the wall,
or place in a box
the better to recall