Impossibilities

There is a bird
overcome with spring
building a nest outside my window,
in the pear tree bright with bloom.
He is struggling
with a strip of tissue,
white as snow against
the snowflake blossoms
and his midnight feathers.
He twists and turns and flutters
through the branches,
managing his find.
(It must fit somewhere.)
He fails and it drifts away
but he, determined,
retrieves it, pokes and prods
and wraps and winds
with beak and claw--
only to lose it yet again.

O Bird,
of whatever name,
let it go.
The garden is full of tissue
and treasure, of twigs and leaves
that will serve as well.
I should know.
Pounding square pegs into
hopelessly round holes
is what I do.
But hopeful spring knows no reason
in man or bird. Who knows?
It might work yet.
In April, everything is possible.