Every
morning you call to me.
Long after the leaves have fallen,
you still come
to perch on thorny branches.
Today your song
is a reproach:
tsk, tsk.
I couldn't sleep again.
I rise from bed,
my hip aching
and watch you pick your way,
through frozen tufts of grass.
Your red does not fade.
I want to be like you
and never lose my appetite for morning.
By Annette Opalczynski
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