Blue skies for the meadowlark,
Green leaves for the robin.
Stark black bars for me.
Warm May morning,
Pacing--twelve steps forward, twelve back--
Waked again by them.
Gaily trills the meadowlark,
Sweetly chirps the robin.
How then shall I sing?
Songs of mourning,
Keening--twelve notes up, twelve down--
Grieved again by them.
Blissful is the meadowlark,
Ignorant the robin.
They don't know what I miss.
Every morning,
Wishing wailing watching--twelve minutes here, twelve there--
Mocked again by them.
"Mommy, why does our bird sing like that?"
"Because it's happy."
"Oh. Stupid bird."
May '01
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