Back to poetry again for this one.
Mother stone
there is a pigeon who has made a nest very low in the branches of the tree
that overhangs my washing line. patient, she sits,
solid as a warm stone, on her three eggs
oblivious to the dog mere inches below her, who drives himself to frenzy
jumping in twist-turns to lay teeth on her
she's just out of reach
so close so far
I stare at her steadily as I pin wet towels to the line
her jet-bead eyes unwinking, her soft body unmoving
she doesn't flinch when I come within breath-sharing reach of her
when I brush aside obscuring blossoms to count the eggs below her
she just sits, incubating,
the drive to make life new overwhelming
as intractable as the sun
I am looking forward to the babies
- Kathy, 6/11/14
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment