Mild Night Winds

Stir the words in our nests
Where we curl, chest to toe,
Thought to name, head to breast.

We dream of things to say,
Which is to say, words sing
Of us as us at play.

Of all the things that are,
Of all things that could be,
No thing not us, so far,

Can be both what it does
And name it was, just as
What it said said it was.