BIRD HOUSE by Edward Byrne
Fingers stiffening in frigid cold, I plane
odd planks of knotted pine, creating
some tapered shapes from loose pieces
of rough lumber, scraps I had plucked
from under that spare junk pile I knew
I would find behind my father’s shed.
After hand cutting a few short boards
into a floor and steeply pitched roof,
plus four fitted side walls, I sand them,
going over the finer lines of grain again
and again, rounding off all uneven edges.
Before long the wood looks as smooth
as new sand dunes, sudden mounds
scooped out of the summer shoreline
and lifted by ocean gusts, or those
white winter drifts so often found
only one month from spring still
running the length of level fence posts
around a wind-blown meadow filled
with snow, now powdering evergreen
pine needles, driven along the ground
around the wet-black trunks of oaks,
their branches yet bare and the upper
limbs temporarily empty of birdsong.
It looks as though Winter is coming for the third time this season. After an unseasonable warm week with tulips being fooled into thinking it is Spring, we have a winter storm watch tomorrow afternoon and….. More snow! I am just hoping that the little birdies aren’t fooled into coming home too soon!