Birds are Like Flowers in Winter — Vignettes in Writing

“Birds are like the flowers in winter,” That’s what Mike said. So, I pulled my Shepard’s hook from the front yard of my second story apartment and took it to his home. I placed the black cast iron hook with the royal blue feeder full of peanuts back by the deck with his other feeders. I wasn’t sure Mike noticed until he pointed out a big blue jay, an agile male that likes to eat peanuts while upside down. His color is so bold.

I fell in love with Mike’s sight. We took our food to the bandstand area to listen to some blues and sitting on the wooden benches in front of us was a little girl with long brown pigtails and a small boy with a Mohawk hair-cut died Jell-O green. They were being so typical boy picks on girl ‘cause I like you that we smiled simultaneously. Mike is electric when he smiles.

July 3, 2004, and it was all so typical Americana. Someone’s sixty-something old wild Auntie, too drunk and dancing while unsuccessfully keeping beer in the cheap plastic party cup was upfront and center for all to see. Men with rock hard potbellies hanging over belt buckles gorged themselves on festival food. Later, while waiting for darkness and fireworks, I sat next to Mike on a colorful wool blanket and tried to summon-up my will to lean in closer to him. I wanted him to kiss me. 

* * *

After gathering perennials at a church plant swap, I planted the Emma Joe flowerbeds with mint, catnip, lily of the valley and summer flowers whose names I never knew and one day intend to look-up. Those beds were blooming eleven days after the fireworks. Poetry is magic and I read that night with Mike watching me from the audience, his eyes sparkling, drinking me in. At close that night we all stood around outside in a circle, Mike the Younger ducking back into the coffee shop to fill his cup one more time, Ceiri in conversation with others and Mike stepped across the circle and kissed me for the first time, and simply stepped beack. No one noticed. My body was screaming, get back here I wasn’t ready, but I had lost all ability to speak and somehow I ended up in my car Ceiri in the passenger seat when I finally uttered quietly, “He kissed me.”

* * *

Hiawatha helping Kathie put suntan lotion on a client in an electric wheel chair, working the information booth, exploring the flood plain where the dead river has taken back and young grasses grow bright green and water washes over rock that had been deep below the Toursit Park Lake.
* * *

The flowers on the highway.

* * *

I was alive with crowd energy, my palms pulsed.

* * *
I feel like I need to surprise him with visuals and that is how I choose placement of the yellow heirloom daffodils that I planted in the garden beds.

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About kimnixon

Upper Peninsula Michigan Artist and Writer

Posted on November 19, 2007, in Magic Man, Nature Writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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