Violet

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