To Be Sung

If blossoms could blossom One petal of petals To whom all other blooms are As leaves are to flowers, It would be to the others As you are, my daughter, To all other daughters Whom songs are adoring. For what am I here for If not to make love-songs Of all the world's beauty Whose birthday we share?

If purest of fragrances Brewed a quintessence Too delicate-lonely To ever be breathed, It would be to the others As you are, my daughter, To all other daughters Whom songs are encircling. For what am I here for If not to weave lassoes Of song for the lonely To tug them to love?

Say yes to the breezes. If any dishevels One curl of a ringlet, I'll know and be with you. The grace-notes that feather The wing-beats of longing Are lead till they heal with Their singing your crying. For what is a song for If not to smooth ringlets Of daughters too hurt by The prose of the world?

When storms replace breezes, No hurt can have healing. Then the love I now sing you Can pillow your fading. For what am I here for If not to link fingers With daughters whose wistfulness Worlds never answer? For what is a song for If not to stretch hands out To signal the falling, "You're never alone"?

When the Camp says: "Dig graves now, We're coming to shoot you," I'll help with your shovel —(I'll know and be with you)— To give you more seconds To look up from digging To look at the sun while I pillow the sand out. For what is love here for If not to smooth ditches For all the world's daughters Whose dying we share?