Poetry By Matthew King

      Katie Taylor CC




On Saying Hello to Chickadees

“Hello!” I say as if these chickadees
and I had met before. We might’ve, too:
they could be some of the self-same ones who
stuck it out through the coldest winter ever
with me at this place my grandpa built--
descendants, maybe, of his “Ruthie birds”,
who sang to him my mother’s name, which, lost
in time, he’d absent-mindedly call me.
I kept them fed, sunflower seeds, safflower--
they didn’t mind the menu wasn’t local
or in season. Some got so familiar
they would eat right from my hand. But still
I couldn’t tell one from the next, or whether
any in particular arrived
or went away. I’d wager it’s the same
for them with us—I wouldn’t be surprised
if not one chickadee knew me from you.
But on the off-chance any of them do,
as if they’re all old friends I say “Hello!”
And maybe they float hopeful songs to me,
in case a guy they never used to know
remembers he’s the guy I used to be.

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Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto; he now lives in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville", where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighbouring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry.