Crumbs

I found an old poem yesterday that I had written about a year ago on christmas eve:

No more until the new year,
you said

I wait,
patiently
endlessly
every day

like a starved sparrow
I live, nurtured only by
the small crumbs of love
left on my wooden table

I sit here, watching closely
as the sun rises and sets
how the morning slowly fades
to night and how my crumbs
bit by bit are disappearing.