Won’t kneel on your cushion inches up off the ground
or present my tongue for a
a wafer of wheat.
Won’t spread myself flat on a worn, rolled-out mat
Or fast for a spell and then feast.
But I’ll pause in the snow
after my boot crunch
below
sends a swarm of winter wrens
flying.
They flutter into the hedge,
blink and twitch in suspense.
They’re waiting
– like me
in faithful expectation.
Detente detected,
they flap back down
to the breakfast of
tossed seeds
I interrupted.
