One day I woke and looked around
but everything was different.
Unfamiliar shapes
loomed in the morning sun.
Had everything around me changed
as I dreamed of someplace better?
Rising slowly from my bed,
I cried
as memories like raindrops fell
through the shadows of my mind.
To my left
an open window
showed me someplace
I thought I knew.
But there was no way through the glass.
Outside a bird flew by,
its wings fluttered
like a heart in pain of death.
I looked away
and a face appeared,
staring through the windowglass
as though I were not even there.
I saw the sun
but all the trees were steeped in darkness,
bent and broken,
as though the weight of summers lost
would never let them find the light again.
I lay down,
crying,
for all was as it ever was,
save for myself,
the only thing different
in a world now strange
forevermore.
longing
Untitled
Through the window glass
I see
a bird flying high.
She twists and turns on a warm spring breeze.
Below her is a field of clover,
every purple flower
staring up at me.
And I watch,
silently.
The bird flies by the windowglass
and sees
a face staring out,
motionless
despite the warm spring breeze.
She circles once
and then again
and lands,
asking everyshing flower,
why?
Why does the face watch through the window
and never ride the warm spring breeze
into a field of purple clover?
The Gilded Cage
The little bird watches
from a gilded cage.
Singing
songs of sunny days,
falling leaves,
pouring rain.
A cold wind blows the treetops,
and the little bird watches.
Her wings open,
ready,
but never does the wind lift her up.
And she sings on.
The gilded cage hangs in the window.
I listen
to the little bird’s song,
and my heart hurts.
Through the window
I watch,
in my mind
an endless summer.
The cold wind blows the treetops.
I raise my hands
to the windowglass,
though never does the wind lift me up.
And storm clouds gather.
No longer does the little bird sing.
And my summer sun
gives way
to an autumn of regret.
Onyx City Writing 