I started a wee bit early, trying to stay ahead, as we'll be doing some traveling this month. The first batch of postcards have already gone out.
Here are some of this year's offerings.
|After thirty years
he still leaves me
coffee in the pot,
the last piece of pie,
hungry for our next kiss.
Birds attack the feeder.
A frenzy of wings
for a beakfull of seed.
An inefficient exchange.
The squirrel sits beneath,
|Yesterday, I netted the bushes. Today,
the birds fix me with their beady eyes
planning their next move. Seasonal
warfare neither of us can win. In the end
frost claims the garden as his prize,
the tart crush of blueberries on my tongue
a temporary victory.
|When the Crow lands on the feeder
chickadees and nuthatches scatter
in a panic of wings. Possession
is a worthless prize, his weight
slams the feeder door shut
and all his frantic scrabbling
cannot nourish him.