This entry is part 18 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2014-15


Who owns the high-pitched whistle of waxwings
and the feathered cheques they serve to the air?

Who owns the sheets that ice the roads
to bring to a halt the commerce in towns?

Who owns the traps set in the wood
that snap at the sudden weight of snow?

And who owns the hands that labor all day
before they touch the pillow or the pen?


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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