Overwintering
Sometimes, on these mornings
dark and out of sync with dawn
I’d wake, as slick as new porcelain
and tuck into the chair in this little room
listening to the wintering blackbirds
They left when the old woman died
and the new neighbors moved in
My fingers hover just above the keyboard
the sceensaver blinks on
Still, I listen
in the space long before light
as it fills with all that I carry
in the scuttle between—
all that snags
on the beggar-ticks of my mind—
along the way from start to finish
there’s every way
to sort the time
I know the blackbirds are overwintering
in the underbrush along the lake
coat
shoes
headlamp
I offer you poetry as a Practice of Hope. Write back!
I invite you to write an answer poem and put it in the chat - or put a link to it in the chat!
Ren,
This really grabbed me.
I feel like this poem's in conversation with Steven's "The Snow Man."
Wonderful to hear your voice reading this wonderful poem. Thank you. R