Hidden in the shadows
Of a forest
Beneath the undergrowth
Is a wild path
Whispers of the trees
Guide the way
Songs of the Birds
Just ahead, but never in sight
Shaped by your thoughts
Never still, but moving
Follow the path of your dreams

Am I to be a spider, laying traps
casting nets
spinning webs—
always hungry,
and never speak—
until my hair is silver as my thread?

I think I should be instead
a careless sparrow, and fly where I may
and land where I please.
Be plain-feathered and plain of song
so none will wish to cage me.

But I will let myself be tugged down
by gravity, or bread.
And I will perch in hand or bush
and be still when I will and have my peace
and be fed.