Ars Poetica: Cove Song

      One and two and three: in time,

      white birds hum out of the choir

      of air, while we tend our dark skin

      with coconut oil, content to sing

      a welcome to the high and low tides.

      The sky song is a blues the sea

      comes into on repeated lines. Why, even

      the rocks sing, the reeds. This

      is how we learn what game to lure

      into what traps, which scales

      to seek, which to keep at bay. We’ve heard

      the mess those men have said. That

      all we do is stand around and chatter.

      It drives them mad, our simple acts

      repeated for the pure pleasure of sound.

      We’ve taught the flowers, high

      and yellow, how to modulate

      their tone. They used to come off sharp

      and off-beat, but now they blend

      right in. The men think themselves

      industrious. Sword thrusting,

      sea sailing: the purposes of their purpose

      driven lives. It makes them crazy

      to think we do nothing more than play

      the lyre, sing all day. Like a group

      of grade school boys trounced in debate,

      they plug their ears and turn away.

      Only one climbed the lookout

      to listen. Does he hear? Even

      the boulders’ jaws are wide,

      even the canoe’s mouth joins our song.

      The cloud is singing softly. Listen now,

      her voice will blend with wind, with rain.