The Right Side of the Sofa

A bit of home.

 

The Right Side of the Sofa

I’ve sat here, time and again,
my coffee lending its heat to the room,
as I’ve, through the window,
considered the weave of pine,
the criss-cross of birch limbs that heave

and bob as the wind fills
the empty space between
their crooked fingers
and the shadows that cling
to their stout trunks

as a shy child clings
to the confidence of a father’s leg.
Soon, sparrows will line
a birch branch, choir members
in brown robes, until a wind

ushers them to a different tree
or the promise of scattered seed
invites them to the ground
where I imagine two squirrels
and a nervous chipmunk

wait for them to dine,
two squirrels and a chipmunk
I can’t see through the window,
sitting near my mug of cold coffee
on the right side of the sofa.

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