She sprinkles birdseed on the scorched grass,
Birdseed on the rotting leaves,
Birdseed on the mounting snow.
But the birds do not come.
The season of feeding
Eludes her masterful wants,
And seeks to find her resolved.
Many are the days of doubt,
But though her hands
Dry and crack in handling the mixture,
Still they plunge in.
She has known others who
Lost patience for tossing it out,
And now they sit wringing plump fingers
As they face an empty sky.
She sprinkles birdseed on the melting snow,
Birdseed on the drying mud,
Birdseed on the growing grass.
And now the birds come,
And the doubts depart,
And the toil of countless days becomes
The revel of countless songs.
They will stay as long as she does.
The others watch her now because
There is no place else to look.
They do not know how she did it,
And still they want to see the birds.