I find this poem to be an ironic comment on mental health and the nature of sanity, the exquisite sense of living on the edge of our experience, free, pure, and a little like the doves with the freedom to fly, when given the right support.

The poem poses a question - who is sane here? Those who embrace the moment to the fullness of their heart's capability, however compromised that ability might be, or those who are limited in vision and are stuck like caged birds imposed in their self-appointed fortresses: trapped, they look out onto those supposedly less fortunate and cognizant. Who is the prisoner? The man caught in the reflection of the airless office, or those enjoying the hazy petals of the Spring afternoon?