To the cardinal in the tree—
what will happen
when you run out of sonorous melody?
Will you try to praise the mundane
in its place? Are you already
broadcasting memos of lowly routine?
Or perhaps have you begun to complain
about the austerity
of domesticated life in a dogwood,
or hung around this late in the day
to proclaim your dissatisfaction
to your less ruddy partner
with an living so plain and repetitive
we passersby all nonetheless
still find the speech appealing—
because all of us
feel in our breasts we might
just as well have given it?