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that’s out of date, packets of pre-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.