At dawn, too many birdsongs
to count up, flickering like the flames
of assorted used candles perched
on my recent birthday cakes.
Some songs hearty, others feeble, yet I’d bet
a bougie they’re not even praising the sun,
that fresh lemon confection. More likely
they boast, warn, threaten —
each ignition of throat a petty arson.
But just as a life can get better as it grows longer
a single day can too. When sun peaks
birds go quiet, infernal alarms snuffed
out, each beak shut
like my fingers pinching a wick.
by Therese L. Broderick
poem last revised June 1, 2011