Absences

It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.

There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white keys
Of a childhood piano—outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.

Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,

Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .
So much has fallen.
And I, who have listened for a step
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers
abounding.

The Gift
You can tell whether a bird has a mate
if there are pinfeathers on its head, new feathers
that start out as stubs full of blood, then enshroud
themselves in a white, scaly coat as they grow.
Preening releases the feather, but a bird can't reach
the top of its own head. A mate preens that spot
unless the bird is alone in a cage. Pinfeathers itch
so I preen my unpaired birds: wrap them in a towel,
scritch their heads and blow till dandruffy stuff
flutters out. They looked pretty mangy this morning,
I recall, as I stare at the side of my mother's face
from the backseat. How long has it been since I
took her in for a haircut? And her whiskers—she can't
see to shave. We're driving back roads, pointing out
deer and hawks as she ahs, before taking her back
to her apartment. Collin calls it "traveling gravel."
She loves it when he drives and I sit in the back
so she can talk as much as she wants.  He always
answers her questions. Sometimes I'll go hours
without saying a word while she talks and talks.
When I was little, she'd bring a book to restaurants
and read while I, no doubt, talked and talked. Things
children said weren't interesting to her, she told me,
and family never had to say, "I'm sorry." Yes,
we've hurt each other, but only I've done it
on purpose. Did I tell you she bought me this car?
It's the most generous gifts I've ever received.