Frostbite Transfer

I felt my soul bleed
out of my fingers
on a bright morning
in January Wisconsin.
After pouring seed into
feeders for seasonal
guests, feeling at my tips
began to slowly drip
onto the fluff of snow,
its heat draining down
to frozen ground beneath.
Still having to secure
my industry, I sheltered
my hands inside feathered
pockets—their souls
replenishing mine
one quill at a time.

1/23/11