a slap that sounds like something dropping
hitting the kitchen tiles and scattering
means Elsie has dropped the soup stuff in its plastic packaging
mother frowns, sweeps up “bits and bobs”
puts aside what is left—what stayed within the
factory sealed, surgically sterile
Elsie stays to count the bobs
the bits, and organise them carefully
according to colour,
according to shape and size and
trustworthiness of demeanour
but these brown beans are turning black
Elsie frowns the way her mother did—
something new is being revealed!
These are not bobs but little houses!
these black bits are little birds!
Out they come—one, two, ten,
The bits and bobs are tiny black birds!
They were waiting for the winter,
they came from over seas, and over land
beyond the grocery store they came,
from Somehere, Somewhere
And now they’re here and saying hello,
twenty, thirty, a hundred!
One hundred birds are flying away,
out the open door!
Away they go,
and in such cold,
Only the Lord can know.
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!