Titmouse

gone are your brighter days
the ashen breast muted
in shadow and in cold
your hardship bears
the routine of the commonplace
your tufted strut persistent

anchored in the blackness
of your doll-set eyes
lies our shared encounter
of the green and of the warmth
approaching ever slowly
incrementally in time

tomorrow brings us closer
in small measure
to those lengthened days
as you cock your head to look at me
that curious recognition
sparks my inner child