I, in prison,
watching birds
pluck worms from green grass,
wondering if
they realize they are more free
than almost every man.

I, in prison,
engaged in recollection of days
which no longer seem the same
and considerations of whether
anyone is to blame
for the incongruity of everything.

I, in prison,
painting gray bars black,
white walls green;
trimming secrets from the edge of leaves.

I tread in circles over steps unknown,
hoping in the future, when the walls are gone,
that I might walk straight;
to chase the moon;
to trap a sunbeam or glint of silence;
to weep, to sleep, at will.