We can complain because rose bushes have thorns or rejoice because thorns have roses. (Alphonse Karr) A Tour Round My Garden)
A Thing Or a Gift: a Poem
One living branch juts out from
our blue spruce between bare spaces where only
the scars from amputated arms remain.
I name the branch hope.
My portable beater whipped eggs
and created batters for more than
twenty years. Finally, it wobbled
with the heat of hot, boiled potatoes.
I call the beater faithful.
A slim, modern replacement waits
in its box. A tool. An object, a thing.
Or a gift.
A cardinal pauses on a half-alive branch.
I celebrate now.
terrypetersen 
Leave a comment