ARTLESS SONG

At sunrise, the winter stalks
shed the silken wraps left by the moon.
From behind flannel sheets I sing
an artless song of the night.
The houseboards crack and groan
as the gas heater hisses.
The quail scuff the oak leaves
looking for grubs and seeds.
The day-spider tugs at her webs
and the worm disappears, as if in a dream.
Already, the sounds of the highway
enter this room like a waterfall.
The pale sky holds signs of a deeper hue.

2/1985
added 11/16