I've decided it's a birdcall, not the Canada goose I will be in the life I live after my next, more like the mourning dove, cooing to a friend too far up, deafened by windstream pushing in from the highway through what we used to call the woods where now nothing remains but a few scant trees, invasive at best, mere claw in winter, overbearing in spring, by summer burning like the rest of the planet, and I wonder how it is you missed the miracle of pollen pillowing in anther at the stamen's wild tip, filament and sepal curled around their own thin edges, feathered pages from an old book nobody reads anymore. copyright 2024 Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, all rights reserved No part of this work may be reproduced without express consent of the author. I do not use AI to write or edit poetry.
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
