Ab-Ode

Is it any wonder that the birds wing to Pine,

Whose every branch silhouetted against grey clouds

Is adorned in feathers,

Calling:

Come! Bring your findings,

Those bits of silken fluff

Plucked from cracked pods

Once open

Bearing orbs of sweetness

Spilling honeyed fragrance

Out into the warm days of yore,

Those dry grasses and twigs

Remnants picked from a waving green ground

Where droppings scattered by the wind shaking loose

Dead weight below a shade-giving canopy

Awaits your beak,

Come! Weave your nests here,

In this bleak landscape

I will be your feathered home.