Richard
It’s mid-winter and the sunrise knows it, and wakes me
With a shudder; I’m just a man.
For 5 cold mornings in a row, the beautiful pheasant
Has come to our patio to steal some of the dry catfood,
Sometimes right in front of my cat.
The house is still, and I enjoy the Sunday newspaper
With strong, dark coffee; the smell of it dances
Around in the early darkness.
Driving to church there is bright, eager sunshine,
And the shadows of bare winter oaks stripe the lane
Like a zebra; shadow, light, shadow.
At church I pray for my favorite aunt, Anna, her clock
Seems to be quickly winding down, dear lady, widow
Of my favorite uncle, Richard; mostly I just pray
That she finds her center.
The pheasant is a male, strikingly colored,
So beautiful, in fact, that I’ve begun to scatter extra catfood
To draw him back; we have become his grocery store.
I tell my wife that if he comes a 6th day, I’ll give him a name,
Richard; but he never comes again.
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