This season has no name. It falls between winter (when we can count on snow and cold) and spring (when we can hope for lilacs out of the dead land).
There being not many buds and not any berries yet, the redpolls keep coming to the feeder and to the detritus of seeds dropped in all the excitement through the winter: seeds now exposed as the drifts slowly melt/sublimate. And so it is that the redpolls get my first haiku.
Sun-crust forms on drifts.
Short beak digs for scattered seeds;
talons grip the snow.
Words struggle to show
Paradox of sun and snow
Bodied in a bird
Well done! Bravo!
Jim T – 🙂 Excellent! A conversation in haiku.
Well done, Isabel and Jim.
Picking up on the phrase “lilacs out of dead land,” I offer…
In dead land, lilacs
stir, waiting for the spring to
welcome their rebirth.
Tom – 🙂 Lovely. The conversation continues . . .
Barbara – 🙂 Three for three. Any other takers?
I would like to change it to be titled “Bird Feed”.
Barbara – Yours? OK.
I am sure Christina is happy to have inspired your collaboration, as well as to have sparked further poetic outpourings. The red poll looks to me like a wounded warrior, which is too sad a topic on a day like this, full of sun and wind and other things sublime and sublimate.
Laurna – 🙂 Thank you. On the redpoll, yes, we’d prefer a cheerier image. On the poetry, I did think you might weigh in . . .
Your haiku is perfection, Isabel. It says all that needs to be said about anything I am thinking when I look at the redpoll — and I am thinking especially now about my husband who may have seen his last wring and sprinter.
Laurna – I am so sorry. My thoughts are with you and your family.
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