Melancholy

caged world.

One of dad’s many feeders he built over the years. Decaying slowly. | The first time I held one of his cameras to do what he loved best. The birds.

Oh melancholy fog
I bid hello
a clear
imperil

compromising
view
a singular
Sparrow

uncompromising
Grace how
you sit
in my bog

of decay 
on a
singular
stick

reminders of
life
outside
a cage

and I
long to
tether the
ones

I savor
of loving
arms in
a melancholy

hunger
of sun
in a Holy 
caged fog.