I can read the look in the robin’s eye
as she picks tan grass for a nearby nest.
Why can’t the snowflakes be slow mosquitos?
Each strand is carefully selected,
like a husband building an apology bouquet
in a flower shop; gold roses with baby’s breath.
We search and pause, and search again,
anointing and discarding
from the day we are born.
How is it our survival advantage
to put everything in our mouth; a bone,
a tongue, another’s aching flex?
Satisfied with her nest selection, she arcs away,
briefly hassled by a police-colored raven,
so many strands left to pull from the earth.
Trapper Markelz (he/him) is a husband, father of four, poet, musician, and cyclist, who writes from Boston, Massachusetts. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the journals Baltimore Review, Stillwater Review, Greensboro Review, Passengers Journal, Prometheus Dreaming, Dillydoun Review, Hole in the Head Review, and others. You can learn more about him at trappermarkelz.com.