Chickadee

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?