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Mockingbird April
by Ann Howells

Mockingbird,
a rollicking feather duster,
flashes white pleats, splashes the bath;
silver sparks scatter. It's April‐
I live in greening air,
galaxies of violets
multitudinous as stars.

Everything's in twos;
Jo-rie flutters about
puts out nesting for martin, sparrow,
that irrepressible mockingbird:
yarn snips in vibrant peacock hue
we'll spy in tree, in bush and eave
throughout summer.

I line my nest with vibrancy,
cherish skinks beneath my love-seat,
tree frogs on my glass,
and a gregarious mockingbird
who performs his entire repertoire
just for Jo-rie and me.
In the estuary at dusk:
heartbeat waves,
heron's trailing legs,
water-snake's sinuous dance,
and frog chorus‐
nightly roundelay so raucous
we tip our heads to speak.

Glorious life!
Pebbles tumble my pocket;
violets scent my pillow,
and that glorious mockingbird:
Encore! Encore!


 

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