Bird Watchers (For Judith)

To tell the truth, there is every reason for depression.
It can last long,
given goings-on in this world
that are plainly wrong to even an average intelligence,
though that word, too,
is abused
and used by some to deceive;

and there’s our young, recently farmed out to war,
who come back bled
of all our old illusions and dementia,
but, like the dead,
lie heavy, a kind of baggage
on worn out hearts.

And so it's true,
we sometimes wish to go elsewhere,
and so forget,
give up what we knew as sure,
give in and let
someone else expound critical reasons
for the spill of blood  
that exists as a critical measure.

We can't remember our social security numbers,
never mind the names
of family and friends, former lovers;
can't make phones work;
 too impatient to talk to computers,
no longer drive,
are, instead, the hirers of taxis,
who have learned to sit, use time that's left
to try to correct old mistakes and revise regrets.

So much we do not forget, but cannot remember.

We type our letters slowly, hunt and peck,
and so become like birds, with grace accept,
make do with what’s left over
and with what turns up  consistent with our needs. 

We put out seeds for birds and watch them feed,
become as God to these feathered and fragile creatures,  
for songs sent out, freely given and not compelled,
but songs that like a bell
draw interest to the singer that may be seen
or, then again, may not,
and never learn the reason for the singing,
but are sure it’s joy
and makes of voice an uncomplaining thing.

We, too, like birds, give voice to what we feel,
but not as well:
joy at the sight of leaves, red leaves that fall
and mix like paint with yellow
on the walk
to create a path of gold.

Unable to remember what we're told, we hear geese call,
see blue jays flash,
those feathered noisy elves, across the sky;.
are glad there's still November to enjoy
the dash and clash of color,
though soon must choose warm clothes to wear
when rain of bland December flies as snow;

the lovely snow that builds and mounds in drifts,
disguises edges,
and gentles limbs and hedges to what we hope
reflects our sense of self: a self  grown old
but, nonetheless, whose spirit
remains firm and waits for spring
with full anticipation;

waits to hear
the first returning robins,
birds that sing,
use song to prop up courage,
so become our deepest hopes embodied
and our trust.