MPNforum Magazine

From the Porch

Sitting on our back porch, we look past flower beds to the marsh,

A mysterious place that houses cord grass, sweet grass, fiddler

Crabs, white and Great Blue herons, egrets, and olther

Birds that sit on the dock looking for their next meal –

The dark, oily pluff mud that smells of rotting fish to visitors but

Smells like home to us is expectially pungent at low tide when

The fiddler crabs come out of their muddy momes and scurry

To find bits of food that stayed behind as the tide receded-

The marsh grass is brown all winter but in the summer

It is bright green, almost chartreuse during the day

And as the sun goes down, it throws rose pink
And pale coral light across the grass as if an artist,

Finished working for the day, threw his leftover paint

Into the marsh –making one last work of art for

All of us to enjoy.

Bluebirds live in our trees and fly across the yard

To the feeder. Picking up seeds to take to their nests

Until it is time to push out their fledgelings that invariably

Get trapped on the porch by our dogs –

Jack Russell terrorists –

Making their rescue an annual event that

Puts at least one young bird in our hands to be

Carried to safety whle we marvel at how fast their

Hearts beat and how much they seem to trust us –

And when they are safe and finally take flight

We are like parents watching their children leave home

Feeling both pride and regret as we remember how

Soft and warm they felt when we held them.

It is hard to let go, hard to watch the sun color the marsh

For just a short time, knowing it will soon be dark –

Hard to watch the young bird fly away from us,

Knowing he won’t return –

Hard to have a disease that has too many questions

And the only certainty is that one day

It will force us to let go of everything –

So, for now it is a gift

Just to sit on the back proch

With a dog on each of our laps

Until the very last bit of light fades from the marsh

And darkness falls so fast

That you dare not go inside for even a minute

Lest you miss that last glimmer of light

That last, glorious wash of pink and peach

That glows so brilliantly for such a short, short time.

–– Elizabeth Goldstein