Coarsened survivor of the cage-bird trade,
morning finds you earth-bound, the color
of chimney smoke, set upon gables, fence-
posts and overhead wires where you are
best able to see how day’s loneliness falls
away, clouds softly settle upon the canopy
and leaves brighten in a flood of afternoon
light that’s cascading down roof lines and
garden trellises and now, weeks removed
from when you first heard them, you release
a warm aching of rehearsed chords and
abbreviated notes, as if, despite your best
efforts, the language of the heart remains
something elusive and difficult to master.
