By Jenevieve Carlyn Hughes
For my mother, born in winter
Today I saw a wren perch on an evergreen
through the frosted glass of an upstairs window.
I watched it hop from branch to branch,
nibbling at unseen delicacies, and preening.
It didn’t seem to mind the cold, or the snow,
that came unexpectedly in the night.
It knew simply how to hop and peck,
with its feathers to the wind.
To think, there was a time
when I might not have witnessed
the presence of a wren in winter,
or even paused, perhaps, long enough to listen
as it glided to the sapling,
and sang above the birdbath,
and danced among the bare branches,
putting on a show for no one
other than the sun: winged glory
neither sought nor gained,
only thanks, given.
But today, I spotted it. Or rather,
I caught a hint of its movements
through the frosted glass of an upstairs window
because one afternoon in summer,
you taught me how to notice
the mere suggestion of feathers
tucked deep within a hedgerow.
So, on this winter day,
which is your birthday,
I saw a wren perch on an evergreen
with its feathers to the wind.
