August 19, 2009

Slow Burn

Big ol' Birdy, sturdy
as an iron skillet,
wakes before the kinfolk
stir, picks through the kindling
box, and stokes the wood stove.

Aluminum bucket
and half-bushel basket
in hand, she greets the sun
and the striped snake wriggling
in the dew by the spout.

Clucking, she sprinkles corn
and plows through milling hens
to raid the coop. Sixteen
big brown eggs this morning
means custard pie tonight.

3 comments:

Paul said...

Perfect. A wonderful slow burn poem, perfectly controlled and measured throughout.

alaskanott said...

oh this has a great sound! great meaasure as Paul said. I love the images it emits

Agnes said...

Thanks, y'all. I wish I was Birdy right now.