St. Stephen’s Green, and Everywhere Else

By Gracie Moran

I saw chilled extremities

stretched over the bridge’s ledge,

ducks creeping through the pond in St. Stephen’s Green

like children peeking out of bed covers.

Striking arabesques marked

by breadcrumbs vibrating

a mirrored stage,

answered by feathers and webbed feet   

snatching up wet yeast.

Their waxy necks

looked up at us, 

a botched civilization that can

share bread,

carve a statue while toppling another into the earth,

lend a stranger a light, and

see the sun glaring in a new spot in the sky 

venturing to call it

February in Dublin.