Between cups of coffee I search

cupboards for anything I can find

that’s out of date, packets of pre-

seasoned rice, nuts that never

made it into braids and stollens,

pestos spun only in a hasty reading

of some long forgotten recipe.

 

It is a frantic seeking and I’ve not

yet determined what I’m looking for

on this day when ice coats the world.

I open a last tin and find three sleeves

of stale crackers I’ll save to feed

turtles in the spring but until then

I open and shut, scramble again like

 

some crazed hen who’s lost a chick,

gone like an idea in the back of your

mind that drives you to write seeking

that elusive word to describe the moment

when the equally elusive mockingbird held

on to the slippery feeder and snatched

a perfect bite while you ache with indecision.