What kind of bird
that sees and knows the beauty of the world
and paints upon the sky the deftest brush strokes of its own
would willingly descend,
opting for sawdust and the cold iron of a cage?

Was it some fear
about the unfenced sky, the knowledge
that there are no places out of bounds,
no fruit too delectable to pluck?
Some perverted sense that joy is something dark?

And were there ever motes of dust
that filtered through your self-knit cowl of shame?
The rare, strange stuff of which you’re made
is not base metal,
should not be fashioned into chains.