Scraps

What is it with birds
that they come to me
in my dreams and are
undisturbed by my presence?

When I wake there are songs
from the radio in my heart —
songs in my head too —
who knows from where?

They vanish once I recognize them.
The birds seem unperturbed.
All I want is silence to prepare my day.
Half a minute unpunished by sound —

too much to ask for. I have
the radio off and it’s too dark
for birds. A car goes by without me
in it. I long to go, too.

To go in silence would be more
than I should ask for. Closing my eyes
I try to pretend I am going — it doesn’t work,
though. I stay seated, infirm,

with scraps
of birds
and fragments
of song.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
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