The tree I see each day from my back deck has finally bought some new clothes and is wearing them resplendently on this warm spring day. She was cold and naked for months, and though I do like most things naked, I’m glad she has something new to wear.
Not yet fully attired, there are bare patches still, but I can see ahead to the beauty she’ll become, splendidly covered with something to protect her from the harsh Australian sun and to capture the eyes of pollinators that will soon fill the air. It’s not just a show she’s putting on; it’s purposeful.
The washing on the clothesline is shifting with each waft of warm air and will be dry and ready for unpegging soon. The sun, doing what it does, has almost dried the clothes and faded them slightly more with another day on the line. I notice the colourful pegs that hold the garments in place have been washed out somewhat, and with time will lose their grip.
In the tree behind me, a lone Wattlebird has found its voice and is advertising its readiness to form a duet. I don’t think it’s terribly fussy … must be a male bird. On the neighbour’s brown shed roof, a Dove that sings has attracted another and is joyfully reminding other nearby birds that “this is how you do it.” Somewhere close, a nest will be built, and their singing hushed until the little ones arrive.
The automatic pool cleaner is climbing the pool wall, collecting leaves, dirt, and dead insects. It never complains, just goes about its business, as dragonflies and butterflies stoop to get a drink above. There is an orange inflatable ball floating on the pool surface, doing steady laps around the edges. Occasionally, the breeze changes direction, capturing the ball in its breath and altering its course.
Me, well, I’m sitting in the shade, cross-legged, unshaven, and only partly clothed. A drink bottle sits at my side, so I gulp and stare up at the clouds moving across the sky. I wonder if the clouds are always there, just waiting for conditions to be right before appearing. I wonder also if the sudden arousal I’m feeling down below puts me in the same randy club as the Wattlebird and the Doves.
I’m going inside now, singing my song and praying for a response.
++++++++++++++++++
The tree outside my window
has bought new clothes,
wears them like she means it.
Months bare, months cold
I liked her naked too,
but this is welcome.
Bare patches still.
I see past them
to what she’s becoming:
petals for the sun,
color for the bees,
nothing accidental here.
On the line, washing sways
in warm exhale,
drying, fading,
a little more each hour.
The pegs that hold it all
have bleached themselves loose ,
one day, they’ll let go.
A Wattlebird finds his voice
in the tree behind me,
not fussy, just loud,
advertising.
On the neighbour’s roof
a Dove has already closed the deal,
singing this is how it’s done
to anyone who’ll listen.
Soon, a nest.
Soon, quiet.
The pool cleaner climbs the wall,
gathering what fell
leaves, dirt, small deaths
never once complaining,
while dragonflies stoop low
to drink from the surface
and an orange ball
does its slow, aimless laps,
turned sometimes
by a wind that changes its mind.
And me in my chair
cross-legged in the shade,
unshaven, half-dressed,
water bottle sweating beside me,
watching clouds
that must have been waiting somewhere
for the right conditions to appear.
Something stirs in me too.
Maybe I’m no different
from the bird, the dove
just another thing
that gets loud in spring.
I go inside now,
singing my own small song,
hoping something answers back.
