It can be hard to use small bits, you see
but that is why I care to show you how
True, I am not so good at this. So be
it. But a smart man said I would by now
know how to find the keys in all this hay
and stack them up. Might there be a good way
to break the mold that small words hold me in
and learn to ask as you have: what did they
do that made such a rift in sense? And when
can we do it? Just once, for our selves. Then
I might not be I. But we can be we.
For me, that would be just fine. A young wren
sang me a song when I woke up, for she
had heard me say my name was Eve. "What glee."
That was the first thing that I thought. "So brave
of her to come out of her tree." For me!
You see, by then I had left my warm cave
and it was nice to hear a voice that gave
a sense of hope that my cold would soon go
and I might see and smell and hear and crave
for one thing more. Back then, I longed to know.
How nice to give that up. To watch the show
from some back row, just me, the screen. I used
to have some good light bulbs in my head. Though-
I could not calm the waves that wore a rut
of fear in me that should have said "oh, Hi."
But no rhymes ring with those. I could have fused
two that, when one, made sense. I had no cues,
and with no lead, how could I start to note
all that I hoped to make. So I chose used
once more. What could help me? A knife? A rote?
It might have been a code. I begged, I wrote
to friends for help with how to speak. I mused
this way for some time. Then I- with my coat
in hand- left the cave. Light! I thought I might
have found the sight I sought. Day fought the night
for me to hear the song. A wren's warm throat
sang long to me. I shook in fits. Cold bites,
you know. My wren sang her June song. A plum
fell from its tree. "That makes no sense. How come
that fruit was ripe in cold? But what a sight
it was- a plum in snow. By then quite numb
I left its bloom to rot. I thought I ought
to grab it. But, you see, the warmth I sought
was hot and ripe and not the dead fruit from
my dream. Right then, I knew what God had wrought:
a lost hope in the me that was, a fright
that I might cause a stir or make a dent,
that I might break the code of man. She's right,
my wren. We might still be magnificent.