Neighborhood 

It’s not far around the horseshoe
forming our neighborhood
to Jordan and Bethany’s house.
The January morning is so alive,
I slow to a crawl beneath the tree
where Cooper’s hawks nested
last spring. I still hear kek kek kek,
imagine Mama stuffing open beaks.

Below the tree, we stood the tables
at last autumn’s block party, where
Miguel’s tacos unleashed Mexico every
time a hungry customer unfurled foil
covering smoky, sensual delights.
Mike’s speakers spewed Motown,
merging perfectly with chat and laughter,
while kids tumbled, leapt and ran.

Now, beyond leafless trees, the water
tower, newly painted blue, lords it over
a now-fallow field behind the last houses.
I’m always startled that our ‘hood
abides at the edge of a beating heart,
a town that allows you to live as close
or as distant from others as you need.

I approach Jordan’s front door slowly,
place my tiny treasure on the table,
like an offering to ancient ancestors.
After his mom with dementia moved in,
we asked “How can we help?”
(A question as vexing as it is profound.)
He’d emailed back: “We can’t seem
to keep enough blueberries around!”

Hallulujah! Something we can do.

This morning I’ve schlepped
fresh fruit—trucked in from God
knows where (must be summer there).
I’ve strolled through three seasons’
worth of senses and memory
to deliver blue-black droplets
of pure joy,
to be sprinkled on oatmeal
then spooned by a son’s loving hand
into a mother’s eager mouth.

 – Ed Davis