Little do they know
These eskimo-birds that pepper the snow
Outside my sliding door,
I wait for them to come every year.
The hardy tiny ones that dig at the snow
With their delicate feet,
Have nothing to fear from me.
Each morning before they appear on my deck
I throw seed on the snow that has fallen
While we all slept.
I’ve built them a place to buffet the blow
Of those winds that rise up from the deeps of the snow
To ruffle their tail feathers.
I keep them sheltered and fed,
Hoping that each day they’ll come back
And get me through the long days of snow ahead.
Kathleen Mortensen © 2016
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses…these, the homeless, tempest-tossed…
(Emma Lazarus, NYC, 1883)
Photo by Kat
Photo borrowed from Flickr
Imagine all the leaves on trees
Are persons waving in the breeze
Of Spring and Summer–soon to Fall;
They live in harmony with all.
Through sun and rain they float on air,
Extend to others, kindness–care,
Opening themselves, to shelter wings
Without complaint or any strings.
Come Autumn and our dear ones drop;
The wild-eyed winds each stripling, strop;
Then we step up to rake them in–
Souls of the Dead, removed from sin,
And toss them on their funeral pyre,
To watch their flames dance ever higher;
Float up to Heaven’s Gate, unbarred,
And rightly claim their just reward.
Kathleen Mortensen © 2008