Odd Lots

Each word is its own dark neck
Of the woods, each name its own

Dark bird known to sing strange songs
Folks hear and try to sing too,

Not quite sure, though, what they’re for,
Why they like them, why they try,

Or what to do. We’re odd lots,
All of us, mixed bags, all sorts.

Shake us up and our songs talk.
Shake us hard and our words sing.

Who knows which words sing the best
Or which songs might mean the most?

Tunes hold thoughts that hold their tongues
In this dark neck of the woods.