The chickadees are so damn faithful it hurts.
Seven degrees the projected high, snow on the way,
and still they stop by, each pinching its seed in turn,
flying away to eat it then back for another.
Let’s treat the kids to breakfast at Denny’s, why not?
They swamp me too quickly, the voices,
between bottomless coffee and pancakes,
yammering, whispering, What is it for, fifteen years?
But then, what is it worth, married love, if we can’t
be casual with each other? How else should we mark
this whatever it is? Even my prepositions falter:
for? over? after? on? Denny’s is fine.
I want to say no one would do it again, would agree,
submit to this life/long pairing, root in this way—
But how could I give up this damntangle fruit, the small
birds that fly in, the living wood and careful, careful wire?