the middle-aged want the sky
to sing with them,
the old want the sky
to remember their song
but the everlasting song
is not of this world
nor for the people in it
though there are songs
in the trees, they are not
pitched to our hearing
everything is not a mirror
a sign, or an assemblage
of ideas in physical form,
more often than not, we do not
speak the language of the world
though we are one of the ten
thousand things, better
that the little ones sing
to the young, that the young
sing with the middle aged,
& that the old want to hear it.
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