Timorous little wren,

     you know not how

       and you know not when,

But you will build your nest

     upon the highest bough.

If not then,

     then maybe now.

At your lofty limb’s behest,

     what a glorious tree

         it will, one day, be–

To house your dewy dreams

     of sticks

        and string.

And, at last, you will be free

         not to think of anything.

Spring 2006