Wren
All the leaves have left the trees and lie
wet and every shade of brown and gray
on the road I walk
no canopy to give me shade but clouds
it is November and right near by
a wren the color of the ground
hops beside dips and darts
into bush thickets along the way and then
returns she is my tiny daughter we
chatter together she
is my song at times she disappears I have
no fear only joy until I see
a fox crossing the road ahead and bold
raccoon hugging a mailbox post behind
I want to call out warn her but do not know
how to say beware she is everywhere I cannot
find her why now
must the ancient station wagon stop
to ask my help in digging out his other car
from mud and atrophy the ancient driver’s
blue-rimmed eyes his milk transparent
face forlorn he’s never asked for help before he’s always
made each thing with hands his strength
is gone even his voice
trembles Wait I wish to say She’s gone! Let me
just find her then
I’ll help you I will help because
I’m strong but what
is that if I can’t find my song
Do you know the words I ask
to entreat a wren the color of smoke to make
the ember housed in rain rise up
to light her saucy face?
he kills the engine of the car his ancient wife
curls and makes her mouth a hollow
a tender whistle she makes
wild sounds I look around the land
lies still unmoving sun blinks in the trees
the fox is gone raccoon’s
not there when I turn back
to the couple and their wagon
on the wet November road I find
I am alone
in the shape
of quiet singing.
wet and every shade of brown and gray
on the road I walk
no canopy to give me shade but clouds
it is November and right near by
a wren the color of the ground
hops beside dips and darts
into bush thickets along the way and then
returns she is my tiny daughter we
chatter together she
is my song at times she disappears I have
no fear only joy until I see
a fox crossing the road ahead and bold
raccoon hugging a mailbox post behind
I want to call out warn her but do not know
how to say beware she is everywhere I cannot
find her why now
must the ancient station wagon stop
to ask my help in digging out his other car
from mud and atrophy the ancient driver’s
blue-rimmed eyes his milk transparent
face forlorn he’s never asked for help before he’s always
made each thing with hands his strength
is gone even his voice
trembles Wait I wish to say She’s gone! Let me
just find her then
I’ll help you I will help because
I’m strong but what
is that if I can’t find my song
Do you know the words I ask
to entreat a wren the color of smoke to make
the ember housed in rain rise up
to light her saucy face?
he kills the engine of the car his ancient wife
curls and makes her mouth a hollow
a tender whistle she makes
wild sounds I look around the land
lies still unmoving sun blinks in the trees
the fox is gone raccoon’s
not there when I turn back
to the couple and their wagon
on the wet November road I find
I am alone
in the shape
of quiet singing.
November / December, 2022
Mary Fitzpatrick's poems have been finalists for the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and the Slapering Hol Chapbook Award; short-listed for the Fish Publishing Prize; featured in Mississippi Review, Atlanta Review and North American Review as contest finalists; and published in such journals as Agenda (UK), Briar Cliff Review, Hunger Mountain, International Literary Quarterly (InterLitQ), Miramar, The Paterson Review, Pratik, Terrain.org, plus ten anthologies. A graduate of UC Santa Cruz with an MFA from UMass Amherst, she is a fourth-generation Angeleno who feels at home in Ireland.
Art: Skye. Oil on canvas. T. Aguilera.