A Convalescent Bed in a Field of Yellow Tulips
Your wires trail into a gopher hole.
A tea of clover greens the IV bag.
Two mice have made the stack of pillows propped
their soft cathedral. They scratch like children
impatient for a homily to end.
Frost fans its ragged ponytail across
the footboard. No spiders creep the sheets.
It seems a stretch, but you can yawn and push
the comforter into a little mound
of springtime snow so a cardinal can land,
resplendent as a sore, to peck and pull
holly berries from your socks. His sleek
and pointed helmet finds its feast. He’s come
to beak each reddened host upon your tongue.