Feathered by Carole Greenfield

Feathered

My father and I sit on the scrap of patio where he goes to smoke
and he says, “Look!” and points out a blue jay that had, without a sound, flown
into the thicket of rhododendron branches that twist themselves round
into a refuge where a bird can perch, scope out the scene, gather shade
and rest while we watch it watching the world. It fluffs out its blue and white
feathers and my father, after a few moments, asks how long I thought
it would take for the bird to learn not be afraid of him. No time
at all, I said. Look at the rabbit feeding on grass right beside you.
They know you are no threat, you who sit quietly for hours, make no
sudden movements, live in awe of their animal nature. They know.
I know you are as much a miracle as they. You who still worry
about my well-being, still fret over my doubtful choices, you
who tell me even if you question my judgment, you will never love
me any less than you do today, than you do right now. The animals
who leave the nest cannot return. I watch a sparrow rub its little
head against the curving branch of a bush whose name I do not know.
There is no one to comfort the brown bird; it must tend to itself.
I can still come home for wisdom and a gentle scold, a brief kiss on
the forehead from your lips which these days are framed by silver and gold
mustache and beard, a soft brushing not quite like feathers or fur, yet still
containing the comfort, the primitive tenderness of animal protection.

by Carole Greenfield

Editor’s Note: This poem speaks of home-love-safety as a place, an emotion, and as a relationship with perfectly written imagery—bird-daughter-father.