Wren, warning
the world off, hops 
his roof, keeping 
the nest of cracked 
shells, twigs, soft white 
dung. His bug-fattened 
hatchlings have not
seen from the hole
through which he enters
their wooden home.
What they know 
of the world 
is a circle of sun 
and a tangled bed, 
and the feathered 
whirl that brings
inchworms, green,
tender. When
ninety summers
have fed and fledged 
and I still move
among the sticks, beak
open to a wooden 
sky, I will say this 
again. Wren,
perch at my door, 
and hold out,
through the circle 
of light, a green worm 
from gardens
outside of here.
Copyright © 2004–2023 Memorious