Your chickadee has nested in the wrong house, exposed and unprotected.
a. You write to it, praising the green
irony of an open door,
the breeze that airs the bed.
Which light, which shadow? you ask.
b. You listen to what could be song
but sounds more like scoldings
of your tap-dancing mind.
c. You breathe in the feathered smell
of defeat, wondering why you didn’t hammer
the yes-yes-yes closed.
d. At dusk you speak the low syllables of elegy,
when you can no longer sing.
You have lost all sight of the tree,
of whatever trembled its branches.