If you could speak
I'm sure you would
with your old
tongueless voice
what trees think
of endless nights
as the houselights dim
and dark, huddled shadows
of a dog and a man
walk beneath you
without knowing you
when you know them.
About spiders living
on your skin, sparrows
tucked in your arms
in a cold, biting wind,
then fly from the tips
of your fingers to sky.
How the moon, just above
your limited reach sings
to your cavernous ears
reminding you clearly
you are small, waiting
under a mammoth of stars,
your nameless waiting,
your anonymous waiting
with your all-seeing eye.
