It’s a tiny place”,
the little girl says,
“It’s so small,
that’s whatever it is,
it’s only a circle,
and I for one
can barely see it,
much less talk about it.

It certainly isn’t as big as the stars
or as big as the movies,
or as the music of the radios,
those songs that ripple
like tax men collecting their due,
over waters they believe to own,
and yet can never really move them.

That’s what I’ve noticed.”,
she said,
“The movies can’t move the rocks,
or the stones.
They can’t make the rainbows
or stop the love as it pours
down waterfalls,
crystal droplets as one,
can’t be separated,
even by that man’s billions
and that woman’s shrill,
the one that speaks to
and everyone listens,
ears crackling hackled,
like sticks in a fire.

it’s strange,
that anyone listens at all.
Why, I think the birds
lift each other up and
give each other songs,
not for fame and power,
but for life and death,
the full breadth of their wings:
that is what they are given,
even as swan sings her song,
on death’s special eve.

The death of the whole world,
is in the autumn time,
when proud trees let go,
of every leaf they’ve born,
every verse of green
written, they let go,
and they fall lifeless,
brown, to the ground:
food, warmth, and shelter
for the birth of the whole world.

Still one man sings for greed,
and the greed of sex,
and the Other sings
to worm and weed,
to the deer that wander,
and the dragonfly’s wings,
reverberating on a string,
harmonizing A to Omega,
eight steps to heaven,
and eight steps more,
he always walks softly,
up and down
the sharp precipice,
a priest over holy ground,
a drop in the water,
too invisible to be known,



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