I find this poem, this morning as I peruse poetry on the net. I am feeling a need for poetry this morning, for what it offers my chest and breath. Jane asked me today what poets inspire me, and I thought to myself Jane's poetry does, and now, I find this.
by Lorraine Healy of Freeland, Washington
This is what the old woman has done
for the last three years: soak sun
with a white hen on her lap. There can't be a
bigger measure of contentment, sun on the face,
white hen on lap. After scores of years
selling antiques and old cars, breeding poodles,
after the long bout with life's small tasks,
there are these happy years of backyard
and sun. And on her lap, the white hen.
Then, one day, the hen is gone. A reason
untrivial like the need for stew, a lone
fox, the neighbor's dog. Somebody ought to tell
the old woman the news. Around her chair,
half-grown chicks peck feed, oblivious to the sun.
Somebody needs to deal with the sad path
of bright white feathers. How the old
untether suddenly, the warm weight
of morning no longer enough. How they go
fast, like a flash of white, after
the feathery roundness of what they've loved.