The river has a single song,

Which is itself.

The tree has a song.

The bird also.

The heart knows all

These songs

And a million of its own.

Neither the river

Nor the bird can write.

The tree moves

Its branches against

The sky all day

As if it’s thinking

About inventing

Its own alphabet,

But nothing comes of it.

So it’s still up to us.

We’re supposed to bring

Them into the Book,

Make a place for them in our poems.