How is it
that I can despair
in a work so young?
The thousand little deaths
of others’ expectations
my own.
Quiet and silent
little deaths of despair
lowered into earth
and covered.
Motionless, suffocating, sinking, trapped.
The song of birds.
Expectations are presumptuous.
Preposterous.
“Who gives me this day?”
“Your Father. Just me.”
Expectations and placed burdens
presume expectant, acknowledge, possessed day.
This day is a given day.
The giver and sole expector
takes joy in
the song of birds.