The store bought balsa birdhouse
brought by my grand-girl today
hangs on the same bent rusty nail
hammered in our backyard tree
where the handmade house her
mommy mounted forty years ago
formed from two orange terra cotta
flower pots one upside down on top
of the other held with preschool paste.
Saved in my special place the broken
yellow pencil perch once poked below
the oval hole and a shard of aged clay
displaying initials etched by my three
year old daughter preserved forever
in an old man’s nest of memories.
Carl "Papa" Palmer, retired Army, retired FAA, now just plain retired, lives in University Place, Washington. He has seven chapbooks and a contest winning poem riding buses somewhere in Seattle. Carl has been nominated for the Micro Award and Pushcart Prize.
MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever