The Canary

The morning sun is broken;
Shadow lines
Fall across the cage,
Its prisoner a yellow extreme
Of song and flutter.

The soft feathers
Inspire dreams of flight,
And cold golden bars
Taper them.
Is it a complaint? No,

It is ecstasy
In your voice
Thrashing through and beyond
The thin metal wires
Surrounding you.


--Boris Victor Stecko