Loaves

Modest commerce,
trading Mingus recordings
for coffee, Coltrane for 'cados.
We make eggs from music,
a garage sale of loaves and fishes,
worn wicker baskets stacked to capture
the outpouring sun.

It's still too cold to consider lilies,
new birdbath is dry, drained
by an ice storm crack,
sparrows in tumult descend
on scattered seed.
A circus of squirrels tightropes the fence.
What we feed now
we'll shoo when the fruit
comes in.

Oreo full moon melts,
evening tea bags twice squeezed
to stretch the week.
We'll make it to payday
but not by bread alone.