in the sink his hands

his weathered palms

he barely breathes

at flowers springing into bloom

bursting into fruit

a love he can’t deny

scratching in the dirt

bloodied feathers

he barely notices

and the dread that’s risen in him

crossing his path

sliding under the house

the book lies open

the only comfort



still in the water

the unwashed dishes

as he stares unseeing

at buds on the trees

his back aches as it always does

broken eggshells scattered and

in their pen the hens

piled against the fence

his eyes are blurred by tears

unseeing he watches

a red bellied black

behind him on the table

words underlined in red

for his fallen face