Some mornings I steal the sky
and take it back
I stash clouds of illumination
I plot a good life,
not in a quarry, but in a song
I may recognize and add
to the long festival that is my life.
This morning I saw the sweet grass by the same old river,
the habits in my heart, the flyaway of dreams
I am interviewing birds, the ones with softened songs
I am walking in fragments of myself,
stepping hard through blue stones,
clinging to the sky God by invisible strings
I don’t believe it is bad luck
for a woman to whistle