Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Birdcage Sonnet

I've meant to own a bird since I was ten;
small-boned, chestnut red, bright-golden-beaked. Instead,
I bought the cage. Its resting empty now
upon my shelf: flat-backed, byzantine-domed;
like a minature cathedral, with black wire frame
instead of stone. No angelic warbling echoes
from its lower mesh, no clang of bird-bell bursts
from thin rafters. Its empty. Completely.
Except this morning as I watched, the light
flew in the open blinds and quickly came
to the cages side: it paused, and peeked its bright
gold beak inside. Breathed once. Then, with joy,
pressed sunspark feathers against the bars, splitting,
slipping through, a thousand luminous fragments, filling.

1 comment:

Ryan said...

That was sad, hopeful, and beautiful.

Hey, guess what I saw for the first time when I went to Michigan with Amy? Cardinals! Bright red cardinals! They were so beautiful! I couldn't believe how bright they were. Amy said that when it snows they're even more remarkable. I think Amy's family enjoyed my wonderment at their everyday occurences. Kinda like my amazement at the banana slug at Silver Creek Falls.