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Poem

Coming back home, after a long stint south,
I passed the blue sign on the turnpike that reads

“Massachusetts Welcomes You.”

Under the “Welcomes,” some Mayflower blooms,
And a chickadee perches there, under the "You.”

I’d seen this bird busying our woods as a boy,
Seen its black helmet with small streaks of white,
Flitting from thickets to rest on a branch,
Or maybe on mother's stone up on the hill.
From there, it’d cheer the winter woods with a call:

“Chicka DEE DEE DEE!”

Standing as still as a young boy knows how,
I’d see how it puffs out its tiny, tan chest,
Then sends forth the words
It hopes someone might hear:

“Hello!”
 
“Please be careful!”
 
“Let’s share what I’ve found!”

Sometimes, my human chest puffs out as well,
Set to deliver my own human calls:

“Hi, there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, where are you from?”

Still, some calls get stuck on their way to my throat,
And with all of my puffing, I can’t get them out.
Whenever I try, I feel misunderstood,
And the message gets lost from one tree to the next.

Chickadee, have all songs for your feelings been found
Or do some stay inside, never making a sound?

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