A SONG TO CALL MY OWN

                        after Wendell Berry

I ignore the coyote cry

in the wild

step past the yellow leaf

that should be my salvation

here in November.

It has yet to dawn on me,

however, that I want 

for nothing, everything 

I need is here.

Yet I look to the moon for answers

and curse the silent sky

for its mute indifference.

Though I think I need more,

the truth is, I have what I need:

a roof, some bread, a song

or two to call my own

when the last day dawns

and the birds make it home.