Dance of the Bower Bird
Much much much--
So much foraged and scrounged and mined,
flotsam and tokens
of strangers' delight.
The button, the tin horn, the donkey on wheels.
Why grasp and sort and order and cling
to so many insignificant things?
Perhaps it's a buttress--
some scaffold or truss--
To brace such a gossamer sense of the self.
An essence intangible, faceted, fey,
mirrored in piles and stacks on the shelf.
Some bone deep desire to be utterly known.
Or perhaps it's the singing--
The songs that things sing--
Those ballads and blessings that soften the silence.
the whispery torch songs,
the tittering chanteys--
The airs of the orphaned, the broken and lost.
Those calls from the lonely and castaway stuff.
Or perhaps it's the mystery,
Those lives and those loves,
when flesh delights in a thing.
Making something a poem,
a cocoon morphing wings.
The bridge to another life--