Sub-zero weather, bluebird on bent bough,
snow crunching nearly up to knobby knees--
memory of fire flickering flame
in my mind like long-lost childhood dreams.
Do bluebirds dream of sky as blue as now
or do they mull on collecting nest twigs?
They hunch tight in the cold like you or me
and seem to meditate on warmth with glee.
Some days I feel like a lonely bluebird
wondering when the next snowflake will fall.
I gather up my blueness in secret
and fly out to work with all diligence.
I become my work, my work becomes me,
and when dinner comes we sit, eat, agree.