I mimic the forest, where ferns gentle as flowers, leaves like feral pastels, shape the wind’s hymn, creating a counterpoint of chaos and calm.
There, the birds have memorized melodies older than the shape of my skeleton.
Even young trees, the adolescent tones, sing with the ingrained voice of elders.
Carved streams speak in rough rhythms, of a grounding, the changing shape of earth, the flux of melody.
Awkward sky, an invited guest, punctuates canopy, like grace notes, completes the arc of composition.
I’ve copied the tune best I can.
Brought it back to fill my hummingbird feeder.
The audience’s wings, a rapid flutter, attends my skittish song.
Which is a sweet sugar water tinted by shade, that landscapes the new wild.
The pharmakon of ancient lyric.