From the lowest branches, I can gather
what birds and small creatures leave

after having had their fill.
What the tree has shed

in the dressing room of night
yields barely sufficient cover.

But after the radio dial clicks off,
a small curl of music seems yet

suspended in air— This is how I know
no heart is too small, no plot too shallow

for the seed plucked from its house of flesh
and brought to lie in a field under stars.


In response to Via Negativa: Windfall.

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