Sunrise out the window frame.
The bird Susan could name
& I can't — cardinal? wren? —
winds up its song again.
If I ever again found ease
how do I think would it feel?
Nature aside, nothing
here is my own. Why do I think
it should be? Better to read
Thoreau, his forty years —
from the Walden shack
to his family's attic —
he lived penniless,
rich on earth's largess.
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