Five Poems

Cycles

‘We love the things we love for what they are.’
                                                Robert Frost

Blackbird’s gone
             – until next year’s
             bonanza. He left
a simple cup nest full
of dried twigs, hairs
             – courtyard detritus
barely hanging on
a wisteria climber
that never flowers
            its badly grafted roots
compressed, down
into our house’s under
            – side. It’s been here
since we moved in
...