CANARY
So yellow as if
defending this color
was its only quest;
as if painted
by an artist,
obsessed,
unaccustomed
to shade;
as if stitched
by mid-summer’s sun;
made with delicate silk
in the ancient country
long gone,
the canary swings
on its wooden swing,
claiming its cage
(golden prince
in exile).
It glances at me
through the bars –
and sings;
sings far better
than any sounds
I try
to capture.
As in rapture,
some birdly ecstasy,
perhaps,
its song shimmers,
almost visible
in the slight rips
and tears at the edges
of the air
in peripherals
of the cage.
I humbly retreat,
leaving crumbs
for a treat,
my modest offering
of shame:
I have the freedom
to fly and rejoice,
but where is
my voice?
– – Lera Auerbach