Here’s a Spring-loaded poem from our far-flung correspondent at the Poetry Desk on the coast of northeast Maine, the faithful Tom Sexton. Our man Down East is counting on mud season to soften the base paths before the Red Sox open at Fenway.—PM
Goldfinches at a Feeder
A cold winter and a colder spring will lead
to nothing good, I was mumbling to myself
before they appeared at my neighbor’s old
feeder just after dawn with cold rain falling,
their yellow feathers the only hint of color.
Their wings and caps were sooty-black as if
they had flown too close to the sun like Icarus
and had now returned to make my heart sing.
—Tom Sexton (c) 2015