These winter branches are too thin to hold the birds I've burned.Their soft white wings are singed with smoke like all my memories old.
I open up my ears to flocks of wings never returned.
The woodsman kisses blade to bark with all the stripes I've earned,
We stand in line, wait quietly, while he takes our daily toll.
These winter branches are too thin to hold the birds I've burned.
The whistle wind holds no songs, in all the sounds I've learned.
My limbs despise their burden light; they strangle empty hold.
I open up my ears to flocks of wings never returned.
My smiling faces once with feathers now with bones discerned
The golden new and silver old are given to smoke; sold.
These winter branches are too thin to hold the birds I've burned.
The warm days in dreams conjured; now morning has adjourned.
Now sheltered in the skeleton of branches bare and bold,
I open up my ears to flocks of wings never returned.
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