Tag: micropoetry

Do they eat old food?

Is it a chickadee or a nuthatch?
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.
The feeder rests
under the overhang.
I hold my breath and stay still as they come,
their delicate beaks
extracting a single seed;
Their thanks seem to glow in the morning air.
I should replace their food.
How old is it?
Do they eat old food?
I feel unsure about this
and so many other things.
If I take down the feeder,
They might think it’s gone and fly away.
It would take 5 minutes
to refill
but to them,
Maybe that pause feels like five hours or even five months to them.
The rain has made them hurry
when they feed.
They swoop in and quickly fly away
as they flash against the gray sky.
I sit quietly, letting my coffee cool as I watch.
These are only brief moments
for me
Yet for a chickadee, it might be a lifetime
Or perhaps a nuthatch
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.

Existing

You are old now.
This is how
It happens, right?
all those years of working
just leading up to a couch
and a blaring television.
Your hair is long and white
and eyes that look but do not truly see
Your mind wanders away like the tide
It drifts off somewhere.
In that quiet moment,
that quiet stillness,
you ask how I was feeling.
In two decades, you haven’t.
For twenty years, you’ve looked at me
But you have never seen me.
Now, with your frailty
and knowing you are mortal as I watch you,
in a tiny room
with a loud television,
You ask how I am feeling.
But I think you see a younger
version of yourself
tucked somewhere in me.
“How are you?”
It is in that moment of lucidity,
in the stillness, in
the fragile place where Alzheimer’s
has loosened its hold,
where I only reflect you.
“How are you?”
But it isn’t a question for me.
You are asking,
‘Did I live? or
just exist.’
But the tide goes out,
a stillness returns,
And you go back to just existing.

Like a Board

Now, it is cold here.
My back is tight, like a board.
a million times
and still my first.
“Okay, Jeremiah..”
But I ignore the rest –
I know the routine,
This is my first time
after a million.
I want to say, “thank you.”
as they look,
as my body is searched
for disease,
But I am tired.
So I lay still,
My back is tight and still,
like a board;
after a million times,
Yet always my first.

breathe

I have not forgotten how to,
But I wonder
How I learned.
Have you also tasted
the same air?
How did I learn this?
How did you learn this?
Who held my mouth open
and put these words
in it?
words like “i”
and “you”

There are a lot of things I should do

It’s three degrees outside.
The house seems
to be moaning.
It’s making
sounds I’ve never heard before.
“I understand,”
I say out loud,
trying to comfort the empty room.
It’s brutally cold outside.
I was thinking
that maybe
I should build a fire.
There are a lot of things
I should do,
so many things.
But instead,
I just sit here and drink coffee.
It’s lukewarm.
Black,
and strong.
From the couch,
under my blanket,
I sip coffee strong enough
to strip paint,
and look at the fireplace
thinking about all the things
I should be doing.
But doing
often means saying
and saying often means talking.
I don’t trust my words
or the things
that might fall
out of my mouth
when I open it.
So I just sit
and sip my coffee.
I listen to the house,
as the cold day
takes its toll on her.