By John Leax
His feather flame doused dull by icy cold,
the cardinal hunched
into the rough, green feeder
but ate no seed.
Through binoculars I saw
festered and useless
his beak, broken
at the root.
Then two: one blazing, one gray,
rode the swirling weather
into my vision
and lighted at his side.
Unhurried, as if possessing
the patience of God,
they cracked sunflowers
and fed him
beak to wounded beak
choice meats.
Each morning and afternoon
the winter long,
that odd triumvirate,
that trinity of need,
returned and ate
their sacrament
of broken seed.
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