My grandfather was a fortune teller,
a man whose shoulders were made of birds.
He gave us days and more days,
wrens and swifts scattering toward the future.
He kept a mouth harp in his pocket
and played without warning—
in corn fields, tobacco barns, or
on the landing upstairs
where all our bedrooms opened
like little caves, where
we grew silent, tying our yearning
with silver threads to the sounds
of dinner finished, sleep waiting.
He played to the spirits of the deep
on our behalf, making altars
with wheels of stars and carved owls
for night’s children,
things to make them smile.
Without words, ours was the cup
of each day poured out, renewed,
poured out again.
I wrote this in July of 2021, and it was originally published by Empty House Press in December 2021.
The inspiration for the poem was the memory of my grandfather, Burley Creech, with a wild wren sitting on his shoulder. He called her Jenny Wren, and she came and kept him company many times when he was out working in the barn or field. He recited poetry to her, or maybe to me. To all of us, I suppose. He was a man filled with hope and love.
My next—and possibly last—book of poetry will be named for my grandfather; it will be called “Shoulders Made of Birds.”
That is a great title. And a great poem too.
Thank you so much, Susanna. He was a special man.
Good stuff. I would welcome seeing as much of your poetry as you care to produce.
Thank you, Sherry. I found writing poetry a joy for the three or four years I did it. Still have lots of poems that were never published anywhere; every so often I thumb through them and post one. I’m really glad you like reading them.