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.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- [poem removed by author]
- Milonga sentimental
- In the grey sky, a blue wound:
- At last
- Something takes a few steps and stops
- Metro
- Don’t let the dogs smell your fear
- Immigrant Time
- Concert call
- Standards of Learning
- Wind Chill
- The second crop
- [poem removed by author]
- Mile Marker
- Mission
- February Elegy
- Storm Watch
- Authorship
- Filigree
- House Arrest
- [hidden by author]
- Epithalamion
- Bespoke
- Ghazal for Unforgetting
- Instructions for prospective contributors
- Call and Response
- The Present