Ultima Thule

How far on feathered pinions can a mockingbird fly?
My window sill with its gray flaking paint
may prove too far gone
for your good intention stare, your ample supply
of sweet-eyed pity, the same that sees me now a saint
in versed-up words and brawn.

What once were mighty oaks out front are weeping willows,
dotting the fenced-in back, dropping still-green leaves in autumn’s
early near-frosts.
If through their brittle limbs you spy my cold pillow
and the late o’clock lump that rarely succumbs
to the daily cost

of pushing the elevated words on the rest and slightest,
then you will finally sense the flightless path a hapless crow
can ultimately accept.
I gave up my cage for a smaller tree and the lightest
air I could find. Find me at the ends where winds start their blow
and where never-to-be promises are kept.