Countdown

Ten more or
fifteen more
hours, days,
weeks, months,
or years: someone
offer me
one more hand
to give me
an outside chance
that I will need
more fingers
than my own
for the countdown.

Luckily for all of us
looking for hope, 

it’s nearly spring. Daffodils
poking up. Downy
woodpeckers are
constant and frenetic
upon the feeders —
have been all winter,
really, but it’s nice
to see them taking
turns upon the suet:
gorging for tomorrow
but so solidly in the moment
that ten or fifteen more
of whatever units one uses
to break down time
matter not at all to them;
there’s only now.

I will try to emulate
their joyful presence
though I’m compelled
to count down:

fifteen more,
ten more,
five more;

bathing in sighs,
buried in breakdowns;

two more,
one more,
now; the whole time

praying more
for the birds
than for myself.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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