The Only Gesture that Makes Sense

 

On the days when no one

Seems to want what we have to offer,

When no one seems to value

The multiplicity of our gifts gathered

Over many, many years

We go to the forest where live

Chickadees so bold and so brave

That they will land on our open hands

And select sunflower seeds to their liking.

 

There is a bench that we sit on,

Yes, it has come to this, I think,

We who are a certain age are

sitting on a bench feeding birds.

We pour sunflower seeds into our

Wide open hands, and wait.

One by one the chickadees alight

And take a seed to eat or to cache.

Some are impossibly light,

Others squeeze their tiny claws

Into the soft base of my thumb.

There are those that are particular

About which seed to take and still

Others that take two, three maybe four at once.

I begin to recognize them by their weight

And stature and gentleness and forcefulness.

I am enchanted and enthralled by their

Presence, my presencing their presence

 

And I wonder to myself,

Who is feeding who?

 

As an older, as an elder with wisdom to share

Gifts to give, spaces to open and hold

And encouragement to offer

All with the background sound of a clock ticking

This simple act of offering seeds becomes

A ceremony, a symbol, more than a metaphor

Of hands held open offering what we have

To share with a world that speeds by

Knowing that time is running out.

 

And yet, I hold my hands open

And offer nevertheless.

It is the only gesture that makes sense anymore.