I
She is moving among them, singing
in no known key,
singing, song touching each,
and touching each
the song-attending leaves; the earthworn
hands, gentle, quick,
ride the beam-framed harbor
of unrelenting green. Rootsure,
tuned to the vying needs,
her whole music falls, a blessing
indiscriminate as rain. Given
to giving, she routs death
from the growth, singing; sings
though in her own wanting, she,
and bred with death as any.
II
Bolt fast, the keys chime
on the steel ring: day done.
Above her, as ever,
heaven is conjuring its stars.
Before her, their brothers,
her charges-small flames
back of the blackened glass
rising in blind accomplishment
through season on season.
This article appears in May 18-24, 2005.
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