Sunday, February 7, 2016


I sit down to write and end up
reading everyone else’s poems
about death, flowers and airborne dogs.
The wreath of birdseed I hung on the spruce
is gone, even the string that held it
although a circle of seed lies on the snow
in a pattern of bird and squirrel tracks.

Six blocks away a woman I know lies dying;
a violet in the snow.   Last night she did not
eat her ice cream.  Outside her window
a bird-feeder full, sits untouched.
I wonder if the birds who claimed
my wreath will migrate to where she lies
if their feathers like petals will moult into spring.

-Debbie Calverley

1 comment:

Biba said...

Start the poem on 'The Wreath of birdseed....' and you have a perfect thought at an imperfect time. x