The Woodpecker
In Memory of Nolan
by Liz Karels

I watched in amazement at the woodpecker from my window.
Daily, steadily, routinely, monotonously,
he drilled away at the hardwoods;
looking for food, looking for life.
God gave the woodpecker his hard beak to find life.

Just because I'm walking, talking, working,
doesn't mean I'm not hanging on by a thread looking for life
in this strange new world without my son.

God gave the woodpecker his tough beak
because the woodpecker's life would depend on it.
What is my beak made of?
Will it be strong enough now?

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