Simply Happy

Only,

when I push myself,
to the brink,

of choking on the

thick exhaust 
of my anxiety, 

in the pressure-cooking house 
of my heart,

do I venture outside,
and find a chirping garden 
kind of mind.

My ears perk up,
catching the tremendously 
clear, and prophetic,

morse code,
of the natural world.

A lesser goldfinch peaks his 
one beady eye 
out of the forelock 
of the pine tree,

and stares questionably at me,

as if I was a visitor in his backyard,
and not the other way around,

I remain quiet, and 
protective,
like a humble coat of bark,

and stand watch,

as another plier-mouthed 
goldfinch with a far less 
sunny belly,

carries a ribbon of twine,
like a holy sheet of music,

over the one unbreakable garden,

tying carefully,
with a tongue born to weave,

the living corpse of trees,
and abandoned strands of dreams,
into a comfortable treehouse.

Quaking with wonder, 
my brittle eyeballs 
hatch, and investigate 

my claustrophobic skin, 

as if, 
for the first time,

I am an alien species 
to myself.

Oozing out my windows,
and breaking down my doors

is an avalanche of great
expectations, 

a mine field of incessant  
necessities,

to be better, 
to do better,
to know better.

Do I require anything
to be the reasonless glee of 
two birds singing?

I decide that day 
that no urgency 

to acquire anything,
other than,

the gloriously flawed
inheritance
of a human being,

will sway me 
from being 

as simply happy,

as a lesser goldfinch 
with nothing,

but a spacious nest,
and a kindred connection,

for the elements.