December Sunday Dawn
Frost roosts on
my gable, fearing nothing.
The plump pigeon ruffling its feathers
considers me as a plane
floats golden over our heads;
knows it better,
is not fooled by it:
knows it wakes earlier,
thinks faster, clings harder
and writes the rules.
Two panes of glass, piped gas and a pen
separate me from the pigeon's living.
The plump pigeon ruffling its feathers
considers me as a plane
floats golden over our heads;
knows it better,
is not fooled by it:
knows it wakes earlier,
thinks faster, clings harder
and writes the rules.
Two panes of glass, piped gas and a pen
separate me from the pigeon's living.
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