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.