Visitations

I.

Poems, like Emily’s hope, have feathers—

red, ochre rich as a finch’s breast, florescent glints

of the peacock’s many eyes,

ocean gray and green.

In seasons, passing by the day or year, they come,

an astonishing migration from God’s garden

to my trees.

–

II.

My friend collects glimpses of cardinals,

noting the red feathers and the banter between partners

in the trees near her house.

They are visits from God.  Not the birds, she clarifies,

a little embarrassed, perhaps, by her assertion, but the way they direct

my attention after they fly away.

As if her memory is a tall, clear jar

filling slowly—

an apple a day, a perfect copper penny, a postcard

from someone on vacation—whatever the metaphor,

her saving is the same:

A life in which she stores hope one red flutter at a time.

–

III.

Despite my efforts to draw them–white

funnel invitations of a butterfly bush sweeping one side

of my garden, two blown-glass feeders dripping nectar

from maple trees and fence hooks—the hummingbirds

have stayed away.

Once each spring I see a flash, a quick water-blue possibility

flitting past the window glass.

And then it vanishes,

my hospitality apparently insufficient.

When you leave in August, sweet friend,

you will dart away with that same speed and mystery.

And then I’ll have an entire winter to decide

whether to hope for you again in the spring

or put any faith in the impossible

speed and grace of your wings.