Morning tree-

On sharp grass, I sit.

Above, an oak stretches,

Wooden Fingers spreading:

cracks in a glass.

Piercings of a song-

Rip through my matted hair,

till I have no choice but to hear.

My fingers net themselves

into the warmth of my shirt,

hoping in vain for blue solace.

Still

After this serrated day,

I am warmer than the people

Who think to themselves,

I wish I had glass through which to watch the sunrise.