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Nearly stuck

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Wed Feb 21st, 2018

Six inches of fluffy snow

loafing on fence, walk, and roof.

Imprisoned by white,

I’m fixated by birds:

for once they are serious,

not fighting or squabbling,

there’s no time for any of that.

They peck and fly with the prize.


My prize is the woodstove:

I feed it with spilt logs,

watch its embers glow

and in that solemn glow

I’m content as a bird feeder

waiting for the next bird.


Without such sedentary patience,

one lives a hectic life,

wherein one doesn't’t know

if one is a bird at the feeder,

or someone who lives in the glow

of embers winking

and pipes clinking

to philosophic thoughts

on flitting seasonal tribulations

and compensating spring joys

when snowdrop flowers appear.