I want to lasso the sun out of the sky And claim it as mine. Only let it shine in my own backyard. The rest of the world can live in shade. They’ll never know why it strayed. Why shouldn’t it be only for me?
I want to cage the wood thrush so much. Only have him sing his beautiful long song for my ears alone, like a music box that comes with a lock. Others can enjoy the kee-eeeee-arr of the hawk. Why shouldn’t it be only for me?
I want to pick all the flowers; put them in my room. Light up the air with their sweet perfume, until their colorful heads droop, like noodles in a chicken soup. Because they
haven’t the sun or the beautiful sound of the wood thrush’s song, or the swing of the breeze, or the pitter-patter of the rain as a tease. Maybe here is where they don’t belong, arranged en masse in a tall translucent glass.