I

She is moving among them, singing

in no known key,

singing, song touching each,

and touching each

the song-attending leaves; the earthworn

hands, gentle, quick,

ride the beam-framed harbor

of unrelenting green. Rootsure,

tuned to the vying needs,

her whole music falls, a blessing

indiscriminate as rain. Given

to giving, she routs death

from the growth, singing; sings

though in her own wanting, she,

and bred with death as any.

II

Bolt fast, the keys chime

on the steel ring: day done.

Above her, as ever,

heaven is conjuring its stars.

Before her, their brothers,

her charges-small flames

back of the blackened glass

rising in blind accomplishment

through season on season.