The words of a poem
should dovetail
like wood panels
of a finely crafted
cabinet.

The words of a poem 
should glide,
effortlessly,
like a finely tuned
drawer.

In the box canyon
where a canyon wren has nested,
the canyon wren’s song
glides across the canyon
seamlessly
like water over rock:
each note
articulated and
composed
with a craftsman’s
precision.

Even so, it isn’t the melody 
you remember.
It’s the way your heart
sang out.

All along the song was within you 
but the bird gave it wing.