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Next door, the birds—now too late
to know what kind—sang in the dark,
kept me company long before dawn;
the neighbors boarded up the eaves,
told me, laughing, that the birds,
for days, kept flying, flying
against the boards.

Sometimes I find I’ve boarded
up my heart.
One by one I take the boards down,
let in the pain and love again.

The early morning dark now quiet;
I don’t know when your heart will fly
home to my heart,
and so I sing.