bird houses

poems from my notes app

Every winter I

Sweep out the birdhouses

Cobwebs and twigs fall to the floor.

With each year, there are

a number of fragile bones

mixed in with the moss and the chaff

Born in the spring, 

dead by the summer

fragile wings that never took first flight

I turn my face up to winter sun

and take a deep breath before

i sweep out the bird houses 

Author's Note

may 2017- new era of "me." unsure about how I feel about this one.

Reviews

[Paul Bell]

Nature can be cruel. But i suppose that's why it's the survival of the fittest.