New Threads

I’ve never considered myself much of a poet, though I always liked writing poetry.

I’ve been very afraid to produce something that sounds over-the-top and disjointed: purple prose, if you will.

But lately, I’ve felt a surge of creativity, like I’m pulling up new threads into this tapestry. There are any number of reasons for this happening – new friends, new experiences, new energy, new attitude.  I’m enjoying it. And I’m becoming more brave about sharing poetry with others or posting it here.  Poetry, like all writing, requires the writer to take a risk, but for some reason, it feels so much more personal. 

I’m endeavoring to push myself, to force myself past self-imposed limits.  We’ll see how it goes. Interestingly, I’m far less afraid now than I used to be. I’ve certainly been rejected enough times  to have developed a thick skin.  I’ve had my work evaluated by some incredibly fine writers, editors, and agents, and I’ve lived through that and come out stronger for it.

So bear with me through this poetry phase – though I don’t think it’s a phase anymore.


The storm blew the baby bird

from the safety of its nest

to the lawn where my children found it

while exploring after the rain.

My youngest daughter

from the tenderness of her child’s heart

scooped it from the wet grass

then called me, saying “Don’t let it die.”

So small, it had no feathers

just tufts of spiky down

that shot out in a dozen illogical directions

from the sides of its bald head.

It looked like Einstein

they named it Albert

and wrapped it in the softest dish towel

and set it in a bowl in my daughter’s room

I knew the possibility of survival

was remote, at best.

I went into the garden

collecting earthworms and strawberries

I crushed them in my kitchen

with a mortar and a pestle

which are typically reserved for grinding

basil and mint leaves

I mixed it up with water

and fed it to the orphaned bird

with a glass eye dropper I had purchased

from the pharmacy down the street.

For three days, I played surrogate to Albert

before the bird lady from the rescue center

called to take the orphan

off my hands and into hers.

We drove to her home

Albert in the bowl, on my lap

surprised, the bird lady said he looked healthy

and she told me, “You’re a good mom.”


2 thoughts on “New Threads

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