or Breakfast of the Birds I
Is it morning?
They must mourn that
Chilly sunrise—
Spring color on frosted branches,
I am warm
Behind the pane.
They are framed fitly—
By a window—
(Also once a tree)
I wonder.
Does it pain them—
Having no home to shelter in as I?

II
It is morning.
Does it mourn—
Hidden from our sunrise?
Pale, thin—feathers plucked?
Is it chill within—
Behind that hard air?
It seems trapped
In that mangle of dead limbs
(Also once a tree?)
We wonder.
Does it pain—
Having no branches as we?