Posted by: Peadar Ban | March 8, 2009

Still, Life

A trinity of doves settles to the ground
Beneath bare maple branches just outside the house
And solemnly processes around the stone
Bound flower beds, broken limbs and leaf strewn
From the brawn of blustery winter’s bitter wind,
While a gang of chickadees nervously converge
In flights of two or three from nearby trees
On ancient empty feeders filled so recently.

Inside, the heater in the corner of the dining room
Hums, quietly comforting cold shoulders, old feet…
An empty gallon jug of milk and all
The breakfast dishes, untouched still,
Spread themselves haphazardly.
Across the old wooden table’s top
Nothing moved since the last hand put it down.
Still, life has never thought to stop.

On the tallest trees last year’s tattered oak leaves
Hang while melting snow slowly bleeds
Into the street.

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