The birdfeeder’s frame gave way last night

The birdfeeder’s frame gave way last night,

a storm’s rough fingers snapped the wood.

Morning drips off jagged edges,

rain gliding slow, misunderstood.

Seeds scattered like spilled thoughts

crushed beneath my weary step.

Tiny meals half-eaten, tossed,

quiet wreckage where birds once kept.

Broken perch, a fractured stage,

tiny claws that no longer land.

I watch the mess and trace the rage

of splinters slipping through my hand.