I would choose the wren’s day,
first wash of morning, bloom and clear.
Gold leaf evening, when night delays
each edge, then spreads like water.
I would be brisk about it, too,
small and purposeful as a girl
playing house, quick as a piccolo
over the world’s stops and scales.
I will ventriloquize,
surround their house with sound
immanent and rare. For eyes
I will give them ears, just found.
I will sing with a voice
three times my size, fill the season
with turned heads and pure choice.
Beauty is the reason
we will mistake for instinct
the hymn of transition.
Dawn and dusk the same distinct
summation from the lowest limb.
Issue