Seed Balls

by Sharon Black

I watch as coal tits flit
around the metal hoop –

like thoughts, the way they flock     
and scatter. Five, no, six

hang on the grille, each an idea
jabbing for grain, trying to find a foothold.        

Seeds spray to the ground.
A green mesh pocket slumps

through a gap. Perhaps
my whole life is a dream, my body

in a coma, in a lab, as someone in a white coat    
shakes their head, my mother’s

warm hand over mine,
the movements of her thumb as random

as those wings knitting the air            
for millet, cracked corn, sunflower hearts.