What I Like About Cardinals
They know their own, but only flock
in winter. A conclave of bishops
chirp in backyard bushes.
Masked and mohawked,
they startle the snow
in their crimson cloaks,
brighten my evergreens
like bows on a wreath.
They stick around and hunker down
surviving frigid northern plains,
or enough of them do to make
more cardinals. Either it works out,
or it doesn’t, but no plans
to fly south to Florida.
No extra canned goods in the pantry.
No gold coins in the gun safe.
No lawyers on retainer.
Refusing to fly anywhere but home,
their feet cling to icy branches.
Ruby feathers ruffle in the wind.
Published in Tipton Poetry Journal Issue #55, Winter 2023
Lynette Lamp 