David Sloan, a poet from Maine, captures aging and frustration in this poem about chickens. There’s a great interview with David on The Houseboat — a blog I highly recommend, that has an eclectic assortment of artists and poets. Read the interview about his writing process here.
Some nights I feel I’ve lived too long,
when the moon’s a squint-eyed mute,
oak branches turn fish bones,
and the wind’s a whimper.
I hobble out to the shed, our old chicken
coop. How you’d loved those hens,
made the mistake of naming them —
Blackie, Maude, the rest. We never figured
out how the owl got in, but we learned
the cost of attachment. The path I cleared
through the woods is overgrown now,
so I lean against the maples in the yard.
How many more tattered moons
will seek me out? You embrace this waning,
but I can’t find a way to love the less.
You said, Yes, we lose leaves, but we gain sky.
I say, Give me back my legs. Let me
scale this tree, turn panther, pounce
on an owl under a hatching moon,
pillow the night with a fury of feathers.
– David Sloan
from his book The Irresistible In-Between