Despite indigo, despite earth-bound clouds,
I have made a new song of the wood, and rubber,
and waterside, of mind, of mine, of soft black cushions of hair
pinned up and back, out of reach of your picking
hands and flattening palms, and it is for me
to sing inside out and out loud, in my key
tunned and wild and free.
I have brushed the dirt from my lips,
untangled the cobwebs and laughed at you
and your surprise.
I am full of mirth and tomorrow shaped things
whatever you may wish to believe.
You will see me in your blinkered eye,
open or closed, I’ll insist.
This is not news, but it is a promise worth repeating.