Jane is at a conference.
She doesn’t have pen or paper,
but she has a Blackberry,
and she is going to write a very short poem.
I smile at the image of Jane
bent over her Blackberrry,
sweet, little thumbs
typing in words
as they spring from the vine
of her brain.
Shortbread cookies
with raspberry thumb prints,
pop to mind,
as joy warms in my mouth
like summer sun,
even though it is February,
and the marsh is flooded,
and the birds stand
on long legs
with water to their knees,
and survey
yet another great feast.
