One Word
One word to the finches
Who perch on my towering sunflowers,
Who fling golden petals,
Who drop a thousand husks
On the garden below.
Who dive at my coneflowers, talons out
And then peck and pull and shred
Those spiny, spiraled heads.
It is September now, but I know
That you and others of your kind
Will be back again, and again
Perching in the branches
All fall, and all winter too.
And you will continue to feast
On the dry seeds that remain.
What was a colorful garden is becoming
Your harvest meal, your stores for winter,
And you don't care how much I worked
To make this garden grow.
The earth I turned, the soil I amended,
The compost churned, the toil.
The seeds I raised inside while you sat
On brown stems, looking in my windows.
The seedlings planted, and watered,
And watched until they grew.
I have just one word for you:
Welcome.
When you leave today I'll gather
A few of those seeds myself
And I'll set them aside to dry
So that next spring you, and I
Can begin to grow again.
—-
David L. O'Hara
19 September 2020
