The Rooster
       

His frowning beak, his fleck-of-granite eye.
Against the rough pine planks he beats his wings,
and dirty feathers drift across the yard.
I feel that dark, blank eye on me. He struts
atop the coop as though he hears my heart
pounding in its fist-tight cage. I turn my back,
reluctant, and scan the ground for the morning's eggs.
A brown one rests beside the water trough.
Its perfect oval is a poem, one
I've tried to write, about the planet's orbit
and charts describing Earth's trajectory.
I cradle it; my palm repeats the shape.
Then I feel a quick, sharp thump on my anklebone,
and a perfect bloody flower blossoms there.

Copyright © 2009 Shane Seely All rights reserved
from The Snowbound House
Anhinga Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission