The White Crowned sparrows fill
the yard; they butt striped heads at
the feeders, but they sing for their supper.
The sky is brilliant blue,
clouds hover around the edges of my sight, fringing
the hills.
Mount Ida is still white-capped,
the fire-dead splinters bristle through
the snow line above
a carpet of spruce and fir. Across
the street someone has left
a painted rock beside
the mailbox; we’ve all earned its
purple heart.
Bursting buds,
New green leaves on spring awakened
trees.
The House Finch in
the blue spruce announces his
new family, but warbles his warning,
No visitors allowed!
.
.
.
This is a list poem. Sometimes they are numbered, though this one isn’t, obviously. 🙂 I don’t think I’ve seen one with enjambment like I’ve used here, but hey, it’s my poem. What good is a poetic licence if you don’t take advantage?
.
.
.
.
.
(ignore any ads added by WordPress)
.
.
.
.
Shawn L. Bird 