In praise of my pen pal
The treasure that she handed me, i held up to the light.
What tiny hand would hold this avian quill
to capture the saga of a moment? A child's might
i suppose, but i lose the tale in imagining a cardinal on a sill.
None the worse for its loss and my gain. Head cocked,
he perches to see if my window box is a feeder
in disguise or maybe to remind me the flowers should be restocked,
as the ones that graced the window have gone to seed or
merely done their joyful duty and passed back
their time-bound beauty to the sphere from whence it came.
Or maybe it was a token from God to fill my lack
of subject for the letter i write daily to tame
my curious nature and contact my pen pal, unknown
though God remains, but not so, perhaps just together alone.
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