On the shore of a song not yet written,
there I sit down;
there I imagine a lush life, lusher than lives lived today.
There I imagine lush new worlds.
I was songless until now,
my voice snagged on whip-hook willow trees rampaging
over marshland behind the dunes.
All our buried better worlds live on
in song; their dispossessed still sing.
Even here,
far out a man walks the low tide line— his singing
is birdsong muted by distance, his song is a psalm
for a home only music can reach.
His song and mine go on and on.
