Golden Bird

I sing only of the present moment.
I sing only when moved to do so.
Do not, Dumbling, transfer me to
a golden cage. From this wooden cage
I watch that azurine square where
once I flew, and will fly again.
For now, my song is my flight;
I suffer these bars to shape my art.
The sheen of my plumage resembles
no other. Pluck a feather —
you can write poems with it!
Abide with me and you'll begin
to sense when I'm about to sing,
or plummet from song into silence.
If you prize such knowledge, then yes —
by all means make off with me.