Posts Tagged ‘spring’

A few weeks ago I noticed that the wreath next to my door was looking dirty so I thought I would clean it up. But when I took a closer look, I realized that some bird had constructed a little nest inside a large loop of the pink mesh ribbon. The nest was a bit smaller than the palm of my hand, made of sticks and dry grass and lined with downy white feathers. I was so pleased and excited about the prospect of eggs and a hatching family. I found myself taking a peek whenever I passed by.

First I noticed two rose finches hopping in and out of the wreath whenever I walked inside or outside. It seemed like a lot of trouble to always have to dart out of the nest so quickly, but they didn’t seem to mind the effort. They would fly out with roller coaster dips and swirls into a tree across the street, or sometimes they would hop onto the roof and look curiously at me. The father would puff out his rose colored chest and tilt his beak. The mother was brown like a sparrow, but seemed to have a little tuft on her head. I named the two of them Atticus and Scout.

One day after the nearby lawn was mowed, I noticed Atticus perched on the porch rail with a beak full of grass, and it looked like a tiny brown star. He paused for a second to look at me, dropped his little star and flew away. Soon I noticed him and Scout perched side by side on the rain gutter looking down at me. I decided to put a small table under the wreath, and filled a little bowl there with sunflower seeds. Very soon, the porch began to get messy with shells everywhere, little purple berry poops, and mutilated worms. Were the birds bringing me presents or just having breakfast?

The happy incident took place on Easter morning! I spotted four little pale blue eggs in the nest. I began to read about the average times for birds to hatch and mature, and kept putting out sunflower seeds for the happy couple. I was looking forward to hearing the chirps of baby birds in the nest.

A few days later, there was a fifth egg on the edge of the nest. My father told me to read about the Magpie and said that some birds steal other birds’ nests. I told him that sounds like some people I know. One day I spied a handsome mockingbird fluttering in and out of the nest. I wondered what he was doing there. A chickadee started popping up every day and I didn’t see Atticus around anymore.

One day I saw that the mysterious fifth egg had fallen off the edge of the nest and into the seed dish. I wondered if Scout had deliberately kicked it out. It was broken into two halves and I could see the yellow lining. A few days after that I noticed that two more of the eggs had been moved out of the nest towards the edge. I wondered why, but I put a little blanket on the table to catch falling eggs and prevent breakage. It didn’t work, because soon two more were broken on the floor of the porch. A fourth one tumbled and shattered soon after that.

One little pale blue egg remains and it has been there alone now for over a week and the parents seem to have deserted it. I found myself feeling sorry for it and even identifying with it. All of its siblings are broken and the nest is empty. I picked it up and turned it towards the sunlight, and through the shell it looks like candy corn with gold on the bottom and white on top.

I don’t know if it will ever hatch or if Scout will return, but I suppose I will eventually adopt it. I will take its nest out of the wreath and place it on the mantle. Then I will sweep up the carnage on the porch- the egg fragments and worms and poops and twigs and sunflower shells. I have found out that we humans are not the only creatures that know how to make messes of our lives, and that mistakes are just as natural as the seasons.

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An old friend of mine named Margaret gave me this poem years ago, and I find it to be appropriate with Spring upon us.  I don’t know if it’s just me, but I read deeper spiritual meaning into this piece, and a tale of the ongoing warfare between darkness and light. And the King reminds me of Someone too.

Margaret may not have intentionally depicted this struggle, but I’m curious if you can see it too…

~♥~

The lady of the forest rode

Beyond her green land strand.

She sought to find the king’s highway

And come upon his land.

She wished to reach the castle keep,

And speak unto the king

Who held within his castle walls

A key, a song, a ring.

She rode upon a palfrey bold

Who trappings were of chains of gold.

And in her arms she gently bore

A book of tales of old.

A sorrow lay upon her brow

That once had been so clear

And pain was grieving her swift eyes,

Leaving them cold and sere;

For the man with the twisted stick

Who hobbled through the land

Had left her trees ungreened and dead,

Had chilled them with his hand.

His beard was long and purely white,

And round his brown he wore

A frozen band of clear crystal

That glittered edge to core.

He left behind him cold white tracks

That filled with cold white snow,

And he cast aside with careless aim

Red berries there to grow.

Upon his shoulder a raven sat

As black as starless sky,

And croaked into his ancient ear

All tales of far and nigh.

The lady of the forest rode

Up to the good king’s keep,

And called and cried to be let in

To tell why she did weep.

He asked her then what was her haste

To which she did reply,

The twisted man who held a stick

Made everything to die:

He came in greyness and in white,

Was ravager of gardens,

And gentle though she always was,

She could not give him pardon.

Not knowing name for such a one,

In herself she called him grief,

For he destroyed all that he saw,

And she now sought relief.

The wise king was a gentle man,

And knew her heart’s hard plight.

He knew her love of living things,

How she guarded with her might

The heather nests of newborn fawns,

The dim dawn’s first grey light,

The fragile wings of silver moths,

The fragrance of the night.

Yet there was nothing he could to

To drive the man away,

For only Time has power enough

To make him come or stay.

And Time who waits upon the hill

Has never heeded mortal call

But sifts the sands by his own whim,

Controlling redemption, rise and fall.

The lady of the forest felt

Some comfort from the king,

For the named Old Man Winter,

He promised her that Spring

Would follow at his heels,

And dance the gardens from the ground,

For Winter had power but for awhile

To whiten sight and sound.

But Spring, renewer, giften green

Upon the weary Earth,

Would bring an end to sorrow’s rule,

To coldness, death, and dearth.

Winter, the man so bent with age,

Whose glance freezes and touch kills,

Will know the end of his long rule,

And will return to the hollow hills.

He will leave the forest and the rills,

And hobble back to the hollow hills.

By Margaret

~♥~

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