The Song Of The Singing Birds

Beside a window pain,
As the winds grow,
The sun's warm crease,
Is flattened out,
By the frozen deep
Of night,
And the sun receeds,
Into the sky,
As my eyes begin to seep,

A pastor speaks,
A charitable speech,
To an embittered couple,
Who sit across from me,
As he hands them a card,
And hands a card to everyone,
But only looks,
And passes me by.

The sun carries on,
And begins to sear the other half,
Of earth,
And everyone leaves,
But I stay put,
To enjoy the lack of noise,
Which is a song,
Seldom heard,

As I sit in the warmth,
I lean and look towards,
The frigid winter scape,
A voice,
Crackles in the street,

A man is looking,
Back at me,
Stares as intently as I,
My face,
My lips,
My nose,
My eyes,
He seems to reflect,
My mind,
He wants to reach me,
Muffled through the glass,
Smothered by the cold,
He tries to speak to me,
But has no reason to,
For I already know my thoughts,

I know myself,
Had I never met anyone else,
I'd know him too,
He mouths,
"I'm you."

The silence inside breaks,
And the sun returns,
In its wake,
The warmth,
And like a celestial prayer,
Are singing birds,

The other half,
Settles into silence,
And here the bustle settles into me,
A man who seldom sleeps,

The doors open,
And the winds blow,
The silence is broken,
By pained moans,

The warmth returns,
I arrange the words,
To say,
That the moans
Are the pangs of birth,
That in there wake,
A poem is given birth,
A celestial prayer,
For the warmth,
Like the song,
Of the singing birds.