Amy Schrader

As in, the eye of a bird.
As if the eye of a bird

could be caught, held
& warmed against the field

filled with snow. The thaw
& pattern of the birdseye, flawed.

We love the tiny swirling eyes
against smooth lines

of grain. We might confuse it
with maple burl. Birds don’t

peck, deform. No fungus infects,
twists the inner rings, the heart-

wood. Prized, turns well on
a lathe. This feels like an omen.







I wrote this poem in response to a piece of visual work online at [Broadsided Press] for their "Switcheroo II" contest. I didn't win the contest, but I still love the website, which posts a new broadside each month. The editors' goal is "to create something both gorgeous and cheap," which is a mighty fine goal indeed.