The ground looked barren and wintery, but that didn’t daunt a small bird one day last month. It spent quite a while exploring, giving me a chance to observe and lose my heart to it.

Below the bedroom window one morning
a small bird appeared,
pecking here, jumping there, and pecking again
on lawn that had fallen asleep months ago.

It was alone as it pecked except for me,
who had no idea where he – maybe she – had come from,
yet found myself falling quite in love with it —
though it looked nothing special with its brown wings
and tan breast and dark hood which covered its head
from crown past its throat.

To take advantage of imposed social isolation, I considered sorting through stacks of family photos that never made it into albums. The photos are still unsorted, but the poem that arose is dedicated to my daughters Julie and Lisa.

She stood with her toes in the sand,
the tide lapping at her heels,
a small shell looking large in her little hand,
and the sunlight on her face beaming back at me,

and I loved the moment so much that
I turned away from it to find my camera
so I could save the moment I had just left,

but when I returned I was still apart,
for the lens lay between me and the moment
as I shifted the camera this way and that.

The moment didn’t wait –
it moved on and left me with nothing to save
but a self-conscious grimace. 

Now the memories of lost moments spread before me
like sheet music of children’s melodies
that can never be played again

but I take the lesson learned and
revel in a young woman’s concerto,
sometimes mournful, sometimes spirited,
played live in the moment.

For those of you who wonder whether I decided to continue 12 months of Christmas: I now celebrate the spirit of Christmas present by giving gifts when a need or opportunity arises but without promise or expectation. The gift giving has already begun, and it’s joyful indeed.

A few years ago, one person, simply by being themselves, opened my eyes to a lifelong habit and made me think. I started a poem that year; I finished it this month.

Butterflies became the subject of myths long ago, and science and technology haven’t ended mankind’s fascination with them.

Months have passed since I enjoyed the atmosphere of a coffeehouse, but I remember those occasions well. My memories have blended with a chapter on coffee in A History of the World in 6 Glasses; the result is poetry.

While the national conventions this month may focus the attention of many Americans on November’s election, my thoughts are already on Inauguration Day. I like to ponder what poets have said on such occasions in the past and to wonder: What would I say?