wintering in the baffle
The bird feeder in front of my mother's house has a cone-shaped (or skirt-shaped) baffle to keep the squirrels from getting up and pilfering the seeds. Something about crawling up into something designed to confound small mammals intrigues me.
Maybe it's the connection to my father and his garden. I've wanted to write a poem about that anyway. It bothers me that I still don't know the names of any of the plants. It bothers me that I am so unknowledgeable and unobservant and disengaged with life. Not much of a poet.
Maybe it's the skirt shape, and the black-metal confounding of small mammals-who-want-to-steal-seeds is the core of my relationship with women. I don't think that's true, but it might be an easier poem to write.
Maybe the seasonal aspect is more important. Hiding in something that deflects the wind but conducts the cold, something that serves to frustrate throughout the year, except in winter, when it protects. (Of course, it protects the birds year-round.)
I don't know. In addition to being an incoherent, obscure poet, I am also a slow, unprolific poet, and so have no idea when I will actually do anything with this phrase. But, yet, here it is.