A Moving Performance

We are not her audience,
Those for whom she sings
A beating pulse
Long wrapped, sewn
Around her humming heart.

A true wildness lies there,
Where wind blows in all the ways
It knows, needs not know:
So much, that strange silk hooked
Like meadows to brush.

A stage frames this souvenir,
Cries of every rain she came upon-
Open sorrow and open life
As they left dying blessings,
Peaceful as they come.

We are creatures of habit, indeed,
Collecting memories for display
To know someone else;
Gifts, so many gifts
To remember those of Luck.