Past Waking

Hard wind: the snow-
          piles lift and spill.

Monday's salt, thrown
      to recover the walks,

sits useless under today's layer. Still,

one wren comes
          to work the suet,

hangs upside-down,
          pulling seed from fat:

fat that sticks to the burin of his bill—

until it's certain: nothing's
          fine about his work,

nothing, however slender,
          exemplifying

some precision, or pattern of care

that leaves one
          happy for his doing.

His beak is dirty.
          His eyes blink

a snow-beaten, less than indifferent look.

Little mirror,—
      such cold leaves no

room for flight.
      Everything's gone iced;

the bulbs are bruised past waking,

past breaking
      any ground.

Copyright © 2005 Ariane Souza All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission