the bird that plucked the Olive Leaf   has been circling like a record around the spindle of my mind   where the needle's worn the grooves too deep,   and scratched the wax that's blistered from the heat besides   so from any movement in the room -   if my cat walked by the arm skipped!   but to my surprise, my interrupting cat improved   a sound already so severely compromised      the needle's worn the grooves too deep      I'm a donkey's jaw on a desert dune   beside the bush that Moses saw   that burned and yet was not consumed   she's the silver coin I lost,   I'm the sheep who slipped away   we pray with fingers crossed   but you listen patiently anyway      I wrote a little song for you   with a melody I'd borrowed put to words that didn't rhyme   to repeat what you already knew   as the stones thrown at your window tapped in syncopation   you kept a distance out of fear you'd break   but what's good a single windchime, hanging quite all alone?   the music our collisions would make   is a sound that turns the road-that-leads-us-back-home   into Home.      the music our collisions make!      I had a rusty spade but I'm not the fighting sort   if I was Samson I'd have found that harlot's blade   and cut my own hair short!   then in a market dimly lit I come casually to pay   you see my coins are counterfeit   but accept them anyway      so spare me your goodbyes,   your waving-handkerchief-good-byes   given my tendency to err so on the sentimental side   I'll spare you my goodbyes,   the truth belongs to G-d,   the mistakes were mine