Places 10: My Kitchen Door
Two cardinals sail in,
softly feathered watchers,
they sit and wait upon the deck
just beyond my door.
The male bird looks into me,
straight into my eyes,
then flies away as if to say,
“Why don’t you come out and play?”
Urges to rise and ride the sunshine
lift my wings, then die.
Today, I watch. Tomorrow I may go.
Another flight awaits me, this I know.
Sighing, the greens grows deeper
as butterflies fly by.
Mallard drakes glide down the stream,
resting on currents, rising on springs.
Above mud banks’ eroding edges
hens sit and sit on grassy ledges—
incubating eggs.
The simple lemon crocus drooped a week ago.
Now sturdy hyacinths shoot out,
with shouts of pinks and blues,
they fling rich perfumes wide about
on every breeze
that bends the queenly cream narcissus low
to watch wee ants and scouting bees
explore the worlds beyond my open door.
No need have I to rise and fly
above these pulsing lives
God says are good.
High within another world,
through an ancient door,
rising through dim panes of glass
I stand on heaven’s bright floor—
just inside my kitchen door.
Ginny Emery© first published in Places, 2011
