With no one tending me,
Attaching my branches to sticks,
Keeping the flies away ...
O but I'm not alone,
No one tends me,
My hands flap wildly,
My face is bitten and bloody ...
I'm told what seeds to plant
And when the harvest must be done,
I pick the fattest berries for those
Who would be lost without my hand ...
I spend my days toiling
So others can write poems,
Yet, somehow, the words are all mine,
About how beautiful it is to be alone.
