By Rachael Ikins
Bayou City II Branch
I fill sunflower feeders for the chickadees in January.
February they will start their yearning
two-note whistle,
nest.
Blue spruce tree, garden guardian
dense with needles safe for small
baskets to hold eggs barely bigger
than a snow pea.
I fill sunflower feeders in the wind
hoping they can eat before the next storm
blows a momentary burial.
Last fall I found a nest on the grass left by some gust.
I’ve collected seven by now, we lived here eight years.
I gave one to a friend.
When I brush the cat, when I brush my hair
I toss the leavings into the air.
This weaving balanced on my palm,
threaded through, my gold and
silver, its softest center.
If that isn’t what life on earth
Is then I don’t know
what could
explain it
better.
Your poem paints beautiful pictures and tells a lovely story. Thank you.
Lovely thoughts and imagery: sunflowers, nests, two-note whistle, threads of gold and silver. I love the balance and the softness. Thank you!
Beautiful and relatable poem
I love this. so visual and spiritual.