I was thinking about the way, when
a woodpecker tuning
its instrument echoes
a violent melody that reminds me
of a new day
graces of gold glitter
onto the redwood table
calling back
to its previous life
when its large, lustrous green
stood tall within a shower of gold
I was thinking about the way, when
an iron skillet, forged
from a witness
of a far-gone past,
holds the gift
of a bird
burdened with bereavement
the result of a bird’s love held
burnt, strung up
on four plastic legs,
sprinkled with minerals
fine-tuned by Poseidon himself,
and the remnants of green
pepper plants
dried of their color.
I sit at the redwood’s grave
consuming
the stories of life
for the end of their tales
serves to prolong
the end of mine