She threaded music
through the fronds,
a seamstress with the voice
of a silver-throated angel;
she sang not for the ocean,
not for the palms,
not for the million grains of sand;
she sang not for the pelicans,
not for the gray-white gulls,
not for the sinking sun;
her arms open wide,
her head toward the sky,
she sang for her unruly curls,
she sang for her smooth brown skin,
she sang for her fingers and her toes,
for she did not owe a soul
the essence of her being;
she sang      she sang      she sang;
she sang a song for herself.