Message to the Upstairs Neighbor

I always wanted to warn the wren
of staying alive in the attic
is no place for paradise, dark
in the day and vicious
rusty nails in neat little rows
ready to prick the gentle foot.
A small opening that can be
sealed at any time, then death
will be the door out

Winter is too cold here and
comes too early, never ending nights
mixed with endless snowfall,
and jagged icicles.
He should leave
with the harvest moon, find
a cozy southern maple, spend
his days in sunny rhapsody.

I hope he knows and understands
cars careen too fast around tight curves,
snakes sleep on summer’s stones
hidden by wispy grass
and death can be dressed as an old
lady in the park, tossing stale bread
on the ground.

And if he doesn’t come back,
nest his youngsters next spring
in the attic, I will know which door
was opened for him and for me
mornings will be too quiet.


***
This the 100th poem I published on this blog.  I have grown so much as a poet in these last few years. I truly love poetry and I wish more people loved it as well.