Yucky

I've never felt sympathy for aliens before. But here I am, lying in my bed, sniffling, mouth breathing because my nose is clogged, my face sore from sneezing and being swatted at with tissues, feeling that if jason, the sweetest man on earth, saw me like this, he might reconsider his epithet "my pretty", and I feel sorry for those aliens. You know -- the ones in that movie that were slaughtering all humanity on earth, zapping them into dust with lasers or grinding them up and using their blood for fertilizer, from that awful remade movie with Tom "Can I Be Any Weirder" Cruise, and the little girl with the very memorable shriek. We had a common enemy, me and those unbelievably nasty aliens -- the common cold.

Rascal is looking at me as though asking what I've done with the girl that normally feeds him. She's here, curled up into fetal position inside this body possessed by cold bugs. When I have a cold, I feel insulated from the world. As though my head is burried under large heavy pillows. Sounds are dulled. My brain is fuzzy, as though operating on low oxygen. I'm more thoughtful, more introspective, though the thoughts come more slowly and are punctuated by a refrain of "ughs" and "icks".

Who likes being sick? There have been many days that I've foolishly wished I was sick, to have an excuse to stay home and clean house or lie around with Rascal all day. But the actuality of a sick day is more frustrating than relaxing. You stand up to do some chore or other, and you get tired much too quickly, realize you're making yourself dizzy or your throat feels worse, and soon you're back in bed, cursing the bugs again. Feeling wrathful like a lazer-wielding alien.

Bird Paradise

Saturday. An overcast sky, a cool almost-but-not-quite spring day. Jason and I seize it, we've been waiting a long time for a weekend day like this one. On the way we stop into Caribou for vanilla latte (his) and chai latte (moi), then drive on to Delnor Park in St. Charles. We take the path out of the little parking area, and the park belongs only to us. The trees and brush are speckled with green, no full leaves yet. You can still see deep into the woods through almost barren branches. We sip the lattes in our hands, warmth seeping from the paper cups into our fingers. I brought the list of local birds that he'd given me. A guide to the birds of DuPage County that he'd found for me in the arboretum bookstore. We are in Kane County just then, but never mind, close enough. Jason's binoculars were tucked under his arm. "Canadian Geese", he points down by the water. They nuzzle each other just near the dam, and we chuckle a bit. Even though they're unimpressively common, they're still on the list, and I mark them off. It takes a moment for me to realize why Jason is intent on some trees about twenty feet in front of us. I see them. Tiny birds fluttering in their branches, barely visible to me, their dull coloration blending in to the woodsy backdrop. "Kinglets," he says, and puts his binoculars to his eyes. "Golden-crowned," he adds. He hands off the binoculars to me, and I squint through them, trying to find them in their limited field. It takes forever for me to trap one in my view, since they flit from branch to branch and only alight for a moment, tense and turning their heads every which way. They must also have ordered an extra shot of espresso in their morning coffee. And finally, once I find the small bird, it takes even longer for me to spot the tiny yellow stripe on his head which separates him from his ruby-crowned cousin. We get a little closer and ... I see it!

Also spotted that day ... ruby-crowned kinglets, mallards, mourning dove, great horned owl (but we saw that earlier by the courthouse in Geneva), hairy woodpecker, northern flicker (beautiful colors!), eastern phoebe, white-breasted nuthatch, brown creeper (Jason's favorite), american robin, dark-eyed junco, common grackle, and the infamous "jason e" bird.

Walking Through the Lilac Park in Winter

for jason e

Whisps of white shift over the brick path;
Powder swirls around my ankles.
No footsteps in the snow but mine,
And they are quickly swept away.

The park sleeps, tucked in for winter
Dreaming of spring sunset strolls,
Trilling warblers, lilac perfume,
A gallery of tulips nodding in the breeze.

In a warmer season I would meet you here,
Take your hand, lead you down this path
To discover some shady and fragrant corner,
And lie on the grass, the blades tickling our legs.

But last fall, the watercolor landscape bled
To brown, tapestries torn from every branch,
and every private room exposed
To austere sculptors: snow and ice.

Yet, I love that I met you in winter.
A metaphor for two people who love poetry:
Our hearts two bulbs in frozen ground
Full of hope for wet spring.

I think of you as I walk through this park
With frost on my lips,
My body clenched against the chill,
And I wonder if this winter stratified our souls.

I recall the sunlight in your smile
And the tiny green leaves in my heart –
The ones waiting for the thaw --
Begin to unfold.