When I Was 22

 

An old friend writes of a young poet,

That she likes his nature poems the best.

I don’t see much nature in his poems,

I confess, unless we mean a lot

Of human nature struggling to lift

A bit above itself, commenting

On human nature, like a patient

Slightly stoned on an anesthetic,

Watching footage from inside his guts.

Kind of her, nonetheless. I look up

From searching for nature in his texts

To see a scraggly, wide-mouthed fledgling

Of a house finch hopping toward me,

Having launched from the nest expecting,

Even once on the ground, to be fed.

“I’ve got no food for you, foolish thing,

And the cat is just behind that shed.

You’d better change your expectations

Fast, or it’s the cat that’s getting fed.”

The fledgling hops, cocks its head, and then

Has a “you’re not my mama” moment,

Opens its ratty-looking wingspan,

And, seeming surprised as I am, flies.

Ok, could have been nature, I guess.