Stepchild of Nature

Open morning’s door and listen
to a medley of sounds . . .
wind caught in a bush,
grass bent to whisper,
earthworms in their tunnels
(a sharper ear than mine for that!),
birds everywhere from the robin
in the cherry tree to the cardinal
whipping his call from the top
of a maple. To all this chorus of
the day’s voices, add the gnats’
high singing, even the green shine
of leaves seems to change color to sound.
And I sit on the back steps
inarticulate; I lack the tune,
the family ties, the pitch
to join this summer’s discourse.