Julie Rosenfield

My journal

The Breakfast Club

The long, long winter,

The hard, frosted ground,

A handful of kindness,

A scatter of breadcrumbs,

Breakfast club is open.

* * * * *

In the kitchen, with the washing up,

Standing poised, I wait.

It’s not long till the first guest,

The shy wren, hops back and forth,

Considers the menu,

Unsure of approach.

* * * * *

Not so shy, a bold magpie,

Swoops down,

Avaricious.

Crams its beak, once then twice,

Until with a flutter of feathers,

A band of brothers swoop down,

Scattering feathered fellows at the feast

* * * * *

Yet all is not lost,

Crumbs of comfort still,

For the thoughtful squirrel,

Nibbling delicately,

Like a seasoned connoisseur,

And two hopping robins,

Their blazing red chests illuminating

This frozen, white scene.

* * * * *

Just a brief pause, while I dry my plates,

And consider how this picture came to be.

Wheat growers in distant lands,

The work of the harvest,

The kneading, the baking,

   One thoughtful purchase

   And a kind winter’s deed.

* * * * *

And now my dishes are dried,

The garden empty, save frost,

Breakfast club is ended

As another day flies by.

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