It may be the rock in the field is also a song.
And it may be the ears of corn swelling under their
green sleeves
are also songs.
And it may be the river glancing and leaning against
the dark stone is also a deliberate music.

So I will write my poem, but I will leave room for the world.
I will write my poem tenderly and simply, but
I will leave room for the wind combing the grass,
leave room for the feather falling out of the grouse’s
fantail and fluttering down,
like a song.

And I will sing for the bones of my wrists,
supple and exemplary.
And the narrow paths of my brain, its lightnings and issues,
its flags, its ideas.
And the mystery of the number 3.

I will sing for the iron doors of the prison,
and for the broken doors of the poor,
and for the sorrow of the rich, who are mistaken and lonely,

and I will sing for the white dog forever tied up in the
orchard,
and I will sing for the morning sun and its panels of
pink and green on the quiet water,
and for the loons passing over the house.

I will sing for the spirit of Luke.
I will sing for the ghost of Shelley.
I will sing for the Jains and their careful brooms.

I will sing for the salt and the pepper in their little towers
on the clean table.
I will sing for the rabbit that has crossed our yard in
the moonlight,
stopping twice to stamp the cold ground
with his narrow foot.

I will sing for the two coyotes who came at me with
their strong teeth
and then, at the last moment, began to smile.

I will sing for the veil that never lifts.
I will sing for the veil that begins, once in a lifetime,
maybe, to lift.
I will sing for the rent in the veil.
I will sing for what is in front of the veil, the
floating light.
I will sing for what is behind the veil—
light, light, and more light.
This is the world, and this is the work of the world.