the clanking jangle

of emptied feeders—

late winter’s roar & fury

shuffling through the words

sorting what’s useful, what’s fun

something only a poet understands

spring, briefly on hold

cell-phone alert:

winter weather advisory

rain shadows

what little light

is left to give

thus begins a snap in our step—

though still breezy and chill,

we march now toward spring

attuned to the nuances

of inevitable mortality—

in serenity, the ancient relic

dances her last

blindly, she drew

and when at last she looked,

she saw

maple trunk

thickens every year

our steady sentinel

seeking

my own

denouement 

high above the fairway fringe

bald eagle perches in wintry sycamore

does he, too, revel in his majesty?