Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

My Little Wren Friend (for Bobby), a poem, revised

 My little wren friend, alight on the detritus 
 Collected here for compost or, later, when dry,
 Burning.  That branch where you perch seems
 As good as any, really, to listen, or at least
 To hear.  You choose... you can choose, later,
 When dry, what to burn, what to compost.  
 But first, before listening, before the telling,
 Before burning, look with me through 
 The opening I have created, a view where I can...
 Where we can see hills roll and sheep graze
 Where we can hear the ass bray and cows low
 Where the pack of coyotes can be kept at bay.
 
 Maybe we can pause long enough to find
 In the shapes of barren branches, veins through which
 We can climb, like children... like father and son,
 Until at last, letting fall the seeds, spinning down, 
 We can watch a tiny sprout pushing up through 
 The ashes the compost the what-remains,
 Gasp the air, like a child who needed his dad
 Who was never there gasps when finally he sees
 His dad as something less than the sun, but just 
 As necessary a myth in the climbing of trees. 
 
 You speak not, my little wren friend, 
 But your silence watches me, 
 Like a ghost that lives, in a way. 
 Have I removed your home, or did I
 Make a home more beautiful
 Through removal of brush and weeds,
 The view changed I had cluttered with myths?
 
 Either way, here is a tree, a black walnut tree
 That needs recovering, beautiful and tall. 
 Watching me, little wren friend, hear what you will,
 Do you see the hardness in a man at work? 
 We will have to dig in to discover what will grow,
 The soil toxic from juglone that seeps from its roots.  
 I know garlic will, and garlic has its uses, 
 My little wren friend, at night when at last 
 Blood drifts through the veins climbed like a father
 Looking for his son, keeping at bay vampires
 That lurk in wait for me to soften, to stop.  

This marks a substantial revision to the original poem posted last year on November 24th. The original had a story that only the poet knew in the background of the words that were not enough to tell it. This tells a story, with I believe enough words. Your constructive thoughts are always appreciated.

(C) 2020 Stephen Fuller

6 Responses to “My Little Wren Friend (for Bobby), a poem, revised”

  1. anotetohuguette

    Your words take one on many journeys, through the heart and forest and sometimes closer…
    The title alone made me smile as my sweet crow friend flew onto our balcony railing earlier and sat quietly, gazing into our apartment while I collected a handful of unsalted peanuts…I swear I can feel her unwavering friendship!

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
    • Stephen

      Lol. As long as it wasn’t the Raven! I hear the Raven makes one insane… thank you for the comment, as I was sitting in my chair doing my morning reading the original poem stewing in my brain, the idea of having an actual conversation with the wren and that first line came to me and then the dam opened… I am really happy how it turned out, it feels layered with meanings both symbolic and straightforward.

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply
    • Stephen

      Oh oh!!! Very exciting, I have been eager to hear your thoughts… can you tell me more. I want to hear them before I dig into more of the reasons I did what I did… BTW for very different reasons I like both.

      Like

      Reply

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