Catherine Tufariello

He falls abruptly silent when we fling A basket down or bang the dryer shut, But soon takes up again where he left off. Swept by a rainstorm through a narrow trough Clotted with cobwebs into Lord knows what Impenetrable murk, he’s undeterred— You’d think his dauntless solo was a chorus, This rusty sump, a field or forest spring. And there is something wondrous and absurd About the way he does as he is bidden By instinct, with his gift for staying hidden While making sure unseen is plainly heard. All afternoon his tremolo ascends Clear to the second story, where a girl Who also has learned blithely to ignore us Sings to herself behind her bedroom door. Maybe she moves to her invented score With a conductor’s flourish, or pretends She’s a Spanish dancer, lost in stamp and whirl And waving fan—notes floating, as she plays, Through the open window where the willow sways And shimmers, humming to another string. There is no story where the story ends. What does a singer live for but to sing?