bird bath
BY CONNOR VINCENT
Summer dawn splits shadows
trapped in shallow grass and shamrock.
Our last hour slips; the seconds pass,
slow like powdered
ash in
hourglass.
In the willow tree, I hear your laugh.
Seconds turn to hours winding back
the winds and showering the whip-poor-will,
—I bet we won’t—
with flowers in the bath.
Copper coins we cast into
the bird bath blossom
brass.
Before I fed the birds
the words I meant to say
to you
that day—
I knew you’d
forgotten my name, Nana.
I wonder what bird baths offer but
rotten pennies.
Our last hour sours.
Hourglasses never cease but we
forgot to turn ours
over.
Sunlit
grass,
bathed in
shamrock.
Wrapped in clover.