The depth of winter
In a cold gaze from the sky
Is covered by fog's translucence
Wishing to fly with the yew trees

So, as the night brightly sparkles
Such water cannot compare to
Only be a mere reflection of its beauty
All that is alive is a free miracle

Woodpeckers sit on the clear earth
Ne'er on the floor of moonlight
As they sleep in weeping willows
Who cover them in tears to keep out the night

The bird, they said, did many things.
My sister said it died, like our old one,
Fell unto the cage’s edge like a feather. And I suppose,
if it was picked up by my mother, it must
have been rigid and cold. But
My father, he said it had stopped eating,
and in a paramount effort to escape, grew thin, and
squeezed out from the cage.

Maybe    it succeeded.