I Sing to the Night Birds
I sing to the night birds on frosted dark nights,
and keep at my fingers a smoldering light.
It conducts in earnest from moonlight till dawn,
but no encore will come when your piano is gone.
I sing to the night birds when I smell the pine trees,
when the sun is still baking her soft morning breeze.
But I shan't be here when the tree tops first glow,
for you are not here, nor is your crinkling nose.
I sing to the night birds when stars warm the grass
and the thunderstorms ripen with thunderous blasts.
And of the young couple barely sheltered from rain,
now has no problem when only I just remain.
I sing to the night birds when leaves fill the sky
when the sun begins kissing her fainter goodbyes.
And if my fingertips shiver and my palms feel worn,
I tend to forget you were keeping them warm.
I sing to the night birds with hopes you might hear,
the songs you had loved, when our feelings were clear.
But I had not realized, from winter till fall,
the night birds weren't listening, you weren't listening at all.