[Another dear friend, Carmen Bugan, sent me these poems from her published collections].
This season God sent you a bird’s nest on the porch
with three little blue eggs and a busy robin
waiting every morning outside the door to sing to you
of life’s joys in the heart of loneliness.
I remember fourteen springs ago when I knocked
over the nest and spilled the tiny eggs in the garden
as I planted irises to take my mind off the doctor’s news
and everything else I knew would await you.
Here is a photo of you with the chicks this morning:
Mother says you spend your days on the porch
feeding them cherries. St. Francis giving thanks,
and me thinking of you, and the saint, and of giving thanks
all the way from here where I cannot touch
your old, smiling face that delights at the birds’ song.
The clocks of our birthdays have been turning,
we stand together still inside life’s great circle
blessed with blue bird eggs, of robins? Hard
to tell from the picture, harder yet for you to know
the names of birds in English. We almost miss
the real thing for not naming it, like I almost
lose touch with your face by not being there. Yet
not quite! Days, delight and love are all still here:
Mother looks at you with the camera to send the image
all the way to me. I see both of you, and the birds.
Maybe that’s all there is: the almost missing
and the almost touching life.