Is the day perfect
if there are no birds to wake you
but there is lemonade?
or if you live on Lemonade Street
but there are no birds on electric lines
because the utilities are underground.
no birds twittering in trees
just the sweet sour taste
of lemonade puckering your mouth
the scent of bonnie braes in the air,
standing still in a pitcher of ice water,
tangy, acidy,
still sweeter than most.
My neighbor,
who is always preening and
chatting up the neighbors,
makes hers with bubble gum bursts and *****,
a lemon drop of punch drunk love.
If I want birds and trees
I just walk across the street
to the older neighborhood with telephone poles—
some line birds,
but mostly garden gnomes and bird baths.
My dog delights in yanking me there,
scattering the conferences
of cardinals and jays in mid song
from worm feast
to the trees.
Here, old men and women
in shorts and summer dresses,
holding citron nectar
in tall glasses with seeds, rind and pulp,
delight in their perfect day
filled with lemonade and birds.
I don’t know anymore
if they are thrilled with the trill
or fed up with the cacophony
of untuned bird calls,
birds in all the trees where they belong,
silent at night.
Deep in the forest
filled with leaves,
I suppose their diamond-throated song
is a mournful dirge
for when a tree falls
silently, deadly in the green.
One day our small community saplings
will bloom,
and the days will be filled
with the miracle of birdsong
and drinking lemonade
on Lemonade Street.
