The Tale Weaver
My #27 for National Poetry Month
sometimes i spot her,
birds, clustered in feed's hot pursuit,
peck abandoned seed near tired feet
her taste for sour mash
licked on the sly
from old bottles left behind
at the night door,
her need for a smoke.
nicotine fingers stroke
feathers she has collected
she weaves them into nests, chanting
to her birds in the old tongue.
she is the keeper of their beginnings
and the scribe of their endings.
her fingers move unconsciously.
© 2017 Audrey Howitt