Laden with the wings of a dreamless bird,
I tend my seeds planted in pebbly dirt,
sing light and night from one into the next,
sing under walls and roofs, blankets and breath.
My loveliest chokes and warbles fall, rise,
echo unheard, return to earth and die.
I need but a small patch to plant my words,
to greet the sun and weave my simple nest,
to sell what ripens to whomever buys.
If no one listens, do I, though unheard,
sing to the darkness, to myself, till death
plucks these feathers from a dim, crowded sky?
I sing in air for anyone to see.
But even alone, I still sing for me.
