by ingrid wendt
Tiny as an infant’s fist, a yellow-bellied Banana
Quit is flitting all over this
simultaneously blooming and
fruit-bearing palm, right next to
my rooftop terrace: first one
I’ve seen in the two whole blessed
months I’ve been here. Too fast
for me to snap
a photo, it lands
on a frond, looks around,
is off again.
Just like my mind.
Meanwhile the Great-Tailed Grackle lords it
over the jungle from whatever high peak
the Mockingbird pours out its whole long
repertoire to the deaf, rising sun.
Twelve years after her death I put it together, what
I have known, all along, this morning remembering
(I saw a little birdie go hop, hop, hop)
one more song
my mother taught me
(Kommt ein Vogel geflogen)
before things got tough between us.
(Now the sun is in the West, and the birds
have found their nest.
“We must say our prayers,” they say,” “thank our
Father for this day.”)
three birds. My mother’s lap.