Housebound

Housebound
 
He's been there since summer,
wedged between the panes,
now a still, black blight against the snow.

My eye feigns resurrection–
sure I have seen
a hinged leg twitch– but no.

Drunk in his faith in Whatever
had saved him from so many
swatters and rolled up papers,
he died trying for a mirage. 

– Teresa Kiplinger
 

 See how I incorporate my poetry into my jewelry work here.