Cardinal

Ruby red fancy pants
with your mask as shiny black
as a crow’s face
your crest as jaunty as Robin Hood’s hat
I watch for you daily
long for your rich color to flash
like an exotic jewel against this
gray-brown backdrop of winter

My mouth waters for
plump red raspberries
when you fluff out crimson feathers
against a brutal wind
when you sit quiet as a berry
round, luscious
midst barren branches
of sumac trees

And when you preen like a prince
on this crooked porch railing
and bury your beak in the depths
of your scarlet robe
my nose remembers plunging
into thick clumps of red roses
that climbed my mother’s
garden trellis a half century ago

When snow decorates the cedar tree
that grows through our porch deck
and spackles your gay apparel
with glitzy flakes
you whistle birdie, birdie, birdie
from that picture perfect setting
and I hear deck the halls
with boughs of holly
and imagine a red-berried sprig
in your clawed grasp
the word PEACE silver-glittered
in ever mounting snow

Snow Reverie

Midnight clouds dumped five
dense inches of white sugar magic
on every possible landing place—
it sweetens my ink and morning coffee
with unexpected delight.

Great clumps of heavy white snow lie
tangled in thick green tresses of cedar tree—
a three dimensional Christmas card
too big for any mailbox
except maybe God’s.

Snow tumbles from branches as
flitty birds land, take off
and land again.

Titmouse, chickadee, and nuthatch crack open
sunflower seeds on swinging wooden feeder.
Gold finches hang on sides of bulging white sock,
pull thistle seeds through tiny mesh holes.
Cardinal splashes into scene without warning,
like fresh blood on a new white dress—
brilliant and shocking.

Outdoor dog peers through picture window,
one ear up, one ear down,
head cocked sideways— “May I come in?”
always the optimist.

Parakeets twitter softly as if the snowfall
has shushed their usual morning chatter
and left them whispering dreams
of tropical forest sunshine.

Yellow cat on back of couch
rams his head against my head,
my neck, my shoulders—
no genteel lover is he!

Black cat stares from hooded eyes and couch arm,
“How can you possibly want to write,” she purrs,
“When I am so close by?”
Morning reverie interrupted—I give in
to petting and being petted.

—Glenda Breeden for The Poplar Grove Muse