True, it gets soiled
now and then
and after fall
with snow.

Eventually ice,
then waiting for
beak-pecked memory.

Spring’s first robin–
full, the mirror bath
catches eyes alike,
revives new stock.

So someone
refills it–it is,
after all, expected.

I take the jug
and pour libations
to my aery brethren.

Honoured by their
short feathery stays,
voyeur to their dips.

Yes, I could do
but it’s not mine
to choose.

(“To keep a lamp burning we
have to keep putting oil in it.”
-Mother Teresa)

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply