“What Is Language but a Tool?”

I try to avoid stepping on wildflowers.
In the pasture, a fallen apple tree blooms
From one remaining living branch
And an inky black heifer browses beside it.

The rock wren atop a half-dead cottonwood
Varies a considerable repertoire of trills.
Canadian geese honk ugly by the thin creek
In grass grown high enough to hide a child.

This is not my place. This is not my
Property. These are not my words. They are
Common and shared by other people, half
As this pasture is shared by its many lives

Despite some person or family holding title.
These words don’t really belong to anyone,
And we are not your symbols only, not your
Tools alone. All words are our own. But go on.