Seasonings

 

— Barbara Saxton

It’s Poetry’s new model year. My word gears
grind and verses clutch at all attempts
to mesh them into masterpieces. I guess
I’ll make another cup of tea and stare
some more at January Third’s Bird of the Day
on my brand new Sibley calendar.

Damned if it ain’t my homely friend,
Hudsonian Godwit, answering my beady gaze,
thumbing a slightly upturned bill
my way, before heading off
with a dismissive flick
of slightly blackened wings.

Creative juices molder
in my shallow taiga marshes.
Art hibernates beneath hard tundra
made even more impenetrable
by our too-warm, brittle, so-called
West Coast winter.

Spring will soon arrive–
under-noticed,
less deserved.

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