A twig floats, encased in ice,

on a voyage not of its choosing–

past my house and down the mountain

to a tiny stream, a run we call it–

on to a snow-covered creek, then

to the Ohio River, mighty with barges

and the Mississppi and its delta,

into the warm waters of the Caribbean

that I have yet to see,

where its icy coat will vanish–

the twig will languish on a coconut shore

to be picked up by a passing bird

for nest-building

and the hatched young will fly

north in winter

to harbor in my trees in spring.


About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, short poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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