302 – We fashion the tool to meet the end

We fashion the tool to meet the end

and not, as the bower bird
builds her lovely nest,
a grave of accident:
the child’s bright mitten
chanced upon in the snow.

The shovel lathed
and left to stand
at rest in the cellar
until called to hand.
The bite of the blade
in frozen dirt.

Over the marbled yard made
of graven images, pale
petals scatter with the wind, left
to the bower bird
to line her lovely nest,
end to end.

(h/t Hans Jonas)

This entry was posted in Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *