Late February
We want it to be spring
Right now
The backyard birds and I.
Birds gathered in this cold
At suet blocks
Flocking on feeders
Feathered knots of hunger,
Desperation, greed.
At the kitchen window
Though warmed by coffee,
Wool socks, silk underwear,
I too am desperate,
Empty, hungry, cold.
Waiting for something I cannot find
In a bag of black oil seed.