Little bird, where do you wander?
Do you dream of your oak tree yonder,
Where the smells were warm and
The leaves let in the lights of autumn through their skins of stained glass
Little bird, what storm robbed thee?
From what tempest do you flee,
Rancorous winds that tore at your feathers and
Pulled at your glass bones and discarded you in the deep
Little bird, what must you do?
Drifting through a net of blue,
Picking at the flowerpots and begging for fares
From curious children with their bits of bread and fruit
Little bird, does the cold nestle under your skin?
And you remember your mother and her seeds, chasing away the thin,
Wondering why the shadows grow plastic thorns
On the warm crevices they seem to call their own
Little bird, do you see?
When the sun rises you may fly free,
A droplet amidst the poppy fields where the nights are warm
And past dreams come like the stars above a huddled ball of down.