When words don’t fall like gentle drops of rain
to make the perfect sound on roofs of tin
then I must yearn instead until sun wanes
for just a glimpse of words that soar and sing.

Above the sheds, the barns, the roofs of tin,
they circle near, then veer in haste away
just like the flirting birds that soar and sing
that weave the sky with song, then stitch and braid.

In circling near they taunt, then veer away
these words whose sweetness never seems to wane —
words I so want to weave and stitch and braid
but in my hands they fade like drops of rain.