It can't keep secrets,
likes to speak its mind,
always lets you know what's happening
in its rooted brakes and colonies,
takes its topics from black topsoil and river muck
bringing the underground to light;
and because it lingers for years between flowerings,
it scrapes one stalk against another
like cricket legs or rhythm sticks
to pass the time with music—
when it isn't busy jiving with wind
or chatting with a little bird
or talking shop with clumpgrass
or whispering to itself
or buttonholing strollers, insisting:
Cut me down,
make me into a flute.
Sometimes it sings.
All you need to do is listen.