Cardinal By the Glass
Look, a bird flits by the window,
red feathers, scarlet, a cardinal,
taps its beak on glass, it can’t go
past, it stops and darts its head ’round.
Jane, the birds she did always know,
yes, she knew their calls, their habits,
how their songs twittered and would flow
through each not in raw, wild time,
she though each call was so sublime.
The bird-bath outside came from Jane
and also the feeders, three in all,
she’d watch them play to remain sane
when those hard treatments got too much.
Now, at least she feels no more pain,
now an old picture under glass,
she did love sparrow but my brain
saw her red hair and did declare
she was a cardinal, born with flare.
And even when that hair went gray
none ever would say she faded,
so vibrant until that last day,
when cancer had done its dark work,
yet this bird stands proud, here to stay
that the veil is thin, transparent,
loss may make things seem far away,
but I see it all, our fine past
is just a cardinal by the glass.
|