Feeding the Birds

Image by the author

I thought about taking us to the park today.

I imagined wrapping us up

in the grey wool scarf with the fringes

as if we were a loaf of nut bread

or a baby bird.

I would put us

in the pocket of my corduroy coat

and walk three blocks to the little park

at the end of the Boulevard,

the one with the rose gardens.

It’s too cold for them;

even the late roses

have bent their heads and passed on.

But people like me still go there,

a summer habit dying hard.

I thought about sitting

on a bench by the silent fountain,

warming myself in the sun.

I would just sit, very still —

watching the squirrels and the birds

and the nannies pushing strollers,

watching the children

race through the leaves —

sitting there, breathing,

letting my heart

grow sad and wise.

And when it was time,

I would take us out of the pocket,

unwrap the little grey scarf,

and very gently

break us in pieces

and give us away