I used to walk a trail in the dunes
near Provincetown with my pockets full
of birdseed. I liked the zip of the chickadees’
scratchy feet on my hands
as they jockeyed for a spot. If I could feel them again, I
might get in the spirit. No, these days
out west I stop my car to call
over the horses from their grazing on Wilson Creek
Road. The goats come sometimes
to see if I have carrots.
I run out of things to say to humans, though I love them.
Trash cans blow over in the wind
by my house on the bare ground
this December. Unraked leaves will land somewhere else. Why
did I come to rest here in this desert valley?
What clues in the weather,
at the bottom of my cup? Air drags heavy clouds dark
over the mountains. Let the world carry on:
It’s A Wonderful Life with helpful angels
and the wish for redemption. But I’ve grown tired of wishes,
forgotten in a pocket, un-proffered.
