To little or no avail

The Wisdom Of Waiting

A string of black phoebes sit
the wooden trellis facing south
where the sun forgets it is winter.

They turn their heads in vigil as
if something were coming, some
moment they cannot arrive at.

Wind stirs wingfeathers
as they brace and keep perch,
waiting for it to appear.



Nothing comes. Sun, sea,
soundings from the meadow.
Still, they shift anxiously.

These are the days when life
pauses to consider itself, strung
along a trellis, to little or no avail.

I step out across the landing,
climb up onto the crossbeam
and settle myself among them.

Joseph Gallo
January 16, 2011