Tucked in a Seam
by Frederick Wilbur
Days of tenacious March when songbirds
drain the feeders like visiting magicians,
I watch from my desk window — the urge
to replenish them distracting.
I should be laboring at other sincereties.
They gossip and bully, tango and pirouette,
in a gorgeous deception of flirtation
and survival. To write the apology
to girlfriends I wanted and lost long ago
hours vanish until ubiquitous chick–a–dees
scold me back to my chore of words,
but flight metaphors have gingerly flown.
I want to fill the scoop with millet
and sunflower seeds, traipse rotting snow
to say how much of a friend I am,
but like my grandson’s stubborn tooth,
I wiggle and squirm, not wrenched from
my guilt until, tucked in a seam
and unattainable, only a few seeds remain.