First I would like to write for you a poem to be shouted 
in the teeth of a strong wind.
Next I would like to write one for you to sit on a hill 
and read down the river valley
on a late summer afternoon, 
reading it in less than a whisper to Jack on his soft
wire legs learning to stand up and preach, Jack-in-the-pulpit

As many poems as I have written to the moon 
and the streaming of the moon
spinners of light, 
so many of the summer moon and the winter moon
I would like to shoot along to your ears for nothing, 
for a laugh, a song,

for nothing at all,
for one look from you,
for your face turned away
and your voice in one clutch
half way between a tree wind moan
and a night-bird sob.
Believe nothing of it all, pay me nothing, 
open your window for the other
singers and keep it shut for me.
The road I am on is a long road 
and I can go hungry again like I have gone
hungry before.
What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on
singing?

Leave me with the hoot owl.
I have slept in a blanket listening.
He learned it, he must have learned it
From two moons, the summer moon
And the winter moon
And the streaming of the moon spinners of light.