resting at table edge,
leaning like John leaned into it's tree limb strength,
to check stock of fireplace wood,
water garden,
water horses.
John Brenner's cane rests,
but waits,
like John waited,
for invitation,
supplication,
to make pilgrimage
for Poplar branch,
moth's dinner,
procuring a fitting host plant
for winged inspiration
of hostess.
John Brenner's cane,
a resting limb,
branch of tree for holding him,
third leg,
hewn limb of twin limb,
still holding fast to tree,
that even at rest can cradle birdhouse
that cradles nest.
...birdhouse,
lovingly crafted by John,
devoted architect,
builder,
of houses for Gene's feathered kin,
and her feathered dreams.
The Little Bird Woman sees her plans cradled,
and tended,
as she leans,
on him,
as he leans.
Both cradled in the love of the Limber-lost,
where so much is found.
John Brenner's cane rests,
While frog chorus reverberates,
bird song elucidates,
cicadas pulse,
deer seek running streams,
raccoons scamper and sway and chatter.
All this a welcome song that soothes the nerves
worn raw,
raw made of the same sound bites,
alphabet letters,
as war,
marching forward,
or backward.
Battle cried
and guns fired,
in another unCivil War.
John had enlisted,
August 15, 1862,
side by side with Joseph Aspey,
musician,
who might have tried to imitate nature's songs
for Company D,
who might already intuit,
seek the soothing,
of the Eden nurtured by Gene.
Gene, who forever mourned the loss of one butterfly,
with crushed wing,
inadvertently maimed in reflexive grasp
of falling,
became nature's pacifist,
leaving gaps in walls,
where all may pass through.
Where Light is always welcome.
Where John Brenner's cane rests.