Two nights ago

A small old man came knocking at my door

To sell me songs,

He bore a bag across his back,

A curious heavy sack.

There hung in his belt a small bright tool.

The night was cool

He sat beside the fire,

Close to the rolling heat and smoke.

I fed him and he warmed himself.

Later on we spoke,

In payment of a price

I sell you songs," he said.

How much in gold and silver??"

But the old man shook his head.

I ask no gold from you

Who have no gold to pay.

You paid this singing long ago,

Nor even knew the day."

I smiled accepting while he set to work.

His bag was filled with colors,

Filled with words,

Such Words as we may find

In a strange, lonely, lovely mind

With colors old, with colors gold,

With burning color and bright words.

Wind there was and stars,

And the song a small pool sings

When moon looks down,

And the dark of heavy smoke

Above town:

Dancing, fire, and trees;

Silence like the dawn

Of the first shy day of spring,

Silence of gardens, noise of roads;

Odor of sweet grapes and of lilacs

Woodfires, wet nights, apples;

Sounds of flags and laughter,

Whispers sounds of life.

A pointed pencil was the tool

He used to split the night and day

To poems.

Shimmering colored blocks of words

He split like shivered glass

To make his songs.

He was not at it very long,

Before he sighed, and finished.

I had paid, he said, for song

The songs were mine. I sang them over.