My Garden

My Garden

The red-breasted rogue
hops from spot to spot,
one beady eye on me,
wary and untrusting,
the other on the ground
for treasures I unearth.

Soil scattered by my spade,
entropy in action.
Dark earth betrays pale grubs,
wriggling in discomfort,
like babies dragged prematurely from the womb,
disturbed from their deep slumber,
deposited into harsh light,
and unfriendly climes.

A peckish chick chirps,
ever demanding.
Momentary silence falls.
One life ends.
Another is prolonged
by one tiny beakful.



Line Count: 20

"Poetry Newsletter (June 8, 2022)"