A Pint Of Keys

A Pint Of Keys

Not a key in this dusty jar
knows how to get back to its lock,
so here they’ve all gathered,
waiting for me, cheeks pressed
to the glass. They look like
baby birds, in a dry sparrow gray,
no feathers yet, all of them
crammed in their chilly nest,
too young yet to be frightened,
each with one big black eye
watching to see what I’ll do,
the other turned to the shadows
to see where we might all be going
next.

Ted Kooser