Left far from the window,
withered in shallow soil, I too
thirst, blink, and squint.

I long for song and touch,
for something new ringing
like a solo sung inside my head.

My own hand has landed me
far from sun and sea. I am
armed and legged, eared and eyed,
reading toward dawn.

At sunrise I breathe deep
and move closer to the light.
I want less night.