Today, watching television, I heard an actor, in character, proclaim, “Poets know what love is all about.” Then, I thought about my wife.
Poets Know What Love is All About
Sometimes I stand
by the window above the sink
as I sip my coffee,
watch waxwings and wrens
snatch berries from the shadbush
near the fence,
imagining each berry, as red as wine,
a heart the birds filch
to fashion breath into sprites
crafted when the wind
weaves through a thatch of wildflowers,
each heart gifting warmth
where there was only cold;
then, I wonder, what you might imagine.