by Jenifer Cartland
They flutter down to the feeder,
peck into the tray,
and carry their morsel to a branch
to work through in private.
Or they collect the crisp vein of a dried leaf
to pad a new nest. Just the vein,
pliable, prepared.
Nothing is chosen that weighs them down --
no over-stuffed closets, no unrealistic promises,
none of the thousand untamed memories
from last season.
They maneuver in all types of air --
warm, cold, rain, blizzard --
and, secret of all secrets,
seem to know as well
when to carry nothing at all.
Jenifer Cartland’s poems have appeared in Anawim Arts Journal, Peninsula Poets, RavensPerch, The Wayfarer (Pushcart Prize nominee), Tipton Poetry Journal, Ribbons, NatureWriting, and on her blog (poemsfrominbetween.com). She is a native of Chicago and now lives and teaches yoga in southwest Michigan.