The Chickadees
do not land in my palm because they trust me.
I am a phantom they barely notice. They sense my body heat,
the blood coaxed through my thin veins like tree sap, and they hear
my vibrations, the way Beethoven coped with going deaf, stopping
long enough to bathe their tawny-colored tongues with seed, crushed
seashells of safflower and thistle, feeding the groaning earth.
Read More Poems From the New York Almanack HERE.
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