The Morning

Cloudy moisture rises,
criss crossed with fragmented light.
The sun shines orange through
the Cawtaba tree, leafless now,
but for the bean pods that sway and wait.
I sit at the table with folded hands
and look to the window.
I want to see how morning light
casts shadows upon ferns and red impatience,
intertwined beneath the worm holder.
Winter's cold approaches
and I don't care;
light glares through the blinds
into my squinted eyes.
I want to see,
but can't.

So I sit in the morning sun,
sheltered behind the window.
I draw my legs against my chest
and make a narrow canopy.
It secures
my head upon my knees,
away from the light
and shields
these burning eyes.
They're closed now and I see
only darkness
sprinkled with red.

Janie Whisenhunt's Questions:

What do you think this poem is about? 

I have been told it is too vague and as the writer, of course I know what it is about. 

#2. This concerns the line break, would you have done them differently?  I think maybe some of the lines are too long, but am not sure. 

#3.  I have fallen in love with this form, but maybe I should put my efforts somewhere else?

Thanks!!!!!!