The Woodpecker Poem by April Monroe
The Woodpecker
Why would he work
with the rain pouring down,
splashing on his head
and streaming all around?
Why does he search with such decision,
poking and prodding,
planning the next incision?
How can his feathers
still glow in the gloom,
bright red at the top
black as night at the plume?
His ethic and splendor
diligence and might,
could only come from
the Maker of dark and light.
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5/10/2024 3:02:57 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Nature at its greatest.