bad haiku for a cold monday night

it is possible,
i have learned, that a single
bird can sing the same

song--same single note
even--until its pattern
is so imprinted,

sewn, into the folds
of my mind that this solo
trill becomes all that

i can hear. all i
have in me begins to hum
the same vibration,

a static sameness,
until i am reduced to
a one-note refrain

and nothing else, an
affected monotony.
winter is yet to

settle, yet i crave
the available light the
way i do a new

song.  a new bird, here
to stay a new bird--isn't
that how it goes? i

don't know how this works,
but i have found a new bird
whose gentle, varied

lyric generates
in me new patterns and notes
and words and stirrings

and memories of
spring, even as december
bears down with winter's

weight. bearable. that's
the gift being offered, what
new music can bring

to a heart brought to
the point of permafrost by
the will of a world

in which a single
note becomes a permanent
soundtrack. the bird that

trills that dangerous
single-note lullaby will
never depart; it's

part of the fabric
that pieces me now, but there
is room for mending,

alteration, for
a new addition to my
living repertoire,

and life seems a bit
lighter, with more room to breathe--
all because i heard

a song i'd never
heard before, surprisingly
before it's too late.