On the Other Side of the Magpie

On the Other Side of the MagpieSparrow The botanical garden in my neighborhood is free until April. A frigid Sunday morning and a bad NCIS episode later, we find ourselves walking through grass peeking through patches of melting snow, and the bare gnarled branches reach not for light, but warmth. My mother sits to rest and I cant help but see the same patches of snow, as if melting through her hair, streaking past the past. And the past is here, I can see it in her eyes as she

Sparrow

The botanical garden in my neighborhood is free
until April. A frigid Sunday morning and a bad

NCIS episode later, we find ourselves walking
through grass peeking through patches of melting

snow, and the bare gnarled branches reach not for light,
but warmth. My mother sits to rest and I canÕt help

but see the same patches of snow, as if melting through
her hair, streaking past the past. And the past is here,

I can see it in her eyes as she looks up to those same gnarled
fingers reaching for warmth like her own.

She has been complaining about the cold as of late.
I canÕt remember when she started aching and walking

slowly, I canÕt help it. IÕll pull a muscle now.
We walk down the streets trying to buy soy milk and warm

roasted sweet potatoes. I want to see what she sees
in those trees that line the park. The bare trees with

a sole bird perched atop. She mentions the bird to me.
she wonders about it, not aloud, but I hear.

The other birds fly about and flitter
towards the ground in groups, playing, eating, living

their small bird lives. I envy these birds
that know more about her thoughts than I.