To a Chickadee
As if from inside my heart
you flutter close by,
tiny beak chirping a song
so high I can only imagine its sound.
Your cap and wings soft brownish-black,
little eyes so glossy
they mirror the morning sun,
make me long for what I cannot name.
Now I hold seed in the palm of my hand…
wait in stillness until
you land on my fingertips,
your weight less than a feather and yet
it becomes everything I have ever held.
Now you feast and I am filled.
Kate Aver Avraham loves words whether she is writing them, editing them or reading them. She has been published numerous times, including her recent book of poems, Arms of My Longing from Blue Light Press. She lives in Aptos, Ca. at the glorious edge of the redwood forest.
As if from inside my heart
you flutter close by,
tiny beak chirping a song
so high I can only imagine its sound.
Your cap and wings soft brownish-black,
little eyes so glossy
they mirror the morning sun,
make me long for what I cannot name.
Now I hold seed in the palm of my hand…
wait in stillness until
you land on my fingertips,
your weight less than a feather and yet
it becomes everything I have ever held.
Now you feast and I am filled.
Kate Aver Avraham loves words whether she is writing them, editing them or reading them. She has been published numerous times, including her recent book of poems, Arms of My Longing from Blue Light Press. She lives in Aptos, Ca. at the glorious edge of the redwood forest.
