Ornaments

Aiden Weber

The finches at my feeder

rest like ornaments.

Thirsty for the thistle,

clenching onto curled

claws, on

the fragile stilts

they’ve got for legs.

Oh, nature!

You truly have the finest ornaments!

And the Downy on my suet

darts his head in all directions.

His crown of red,

stroked with a brush,

and free of imperfections.

And the snowflakes

falling from the sky

in crystalled

fragile sculptures,

in fractaled shapes

of frozen rain,

and hovering like vultures.

Jubilation,

richly strewn,

scarlet suns

and silver moons.

And in their sparkle

the old finch rests,

golden feathers

pressed to chest;

Sea glass his

fabric, sunlight his sea,

nature his maker,

my feeder his tree.

The finch leaves

the feeder and, empty, it shakes.

He sees not the window,

like sea glass, he breaks.