Today it isn’t just the fresh
marsh grass that inspires me,
each blade bent and turned to glass
polished by a quiet rain,
or the clouds that race to stay ahead
of wind’s invisible paintbrush,
always loath to strike a pose
and every day a masterpiece.
It’s also the sight of a nest
of webs, twigs and rootlets—
a kind of hanging pocket that’s
bottom heavy like a gourd
suspended from a budding tree—
home to the bushtit birds
that lisp and tick as they weave
in nature’s own woof and warp.
The same feather padded weave,
the playful Dr. Seuss design,
the same patch of boggy marsh
they flock to every year in spring.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that
nature seems to throb and tick
and bloom in this living place
despite the mess of the rest of us.
