My words go out from me.
They plink-plank-plunk into the cosmos of my small tin pail.
Then they are gone.
Sometimes they age down there, shriveling into crabbed forgottenness.
Sometimes they fall.
Sometimes they become food, and they are gone, and I have a hard time believing that those three small berries nourish.
I pick them from the bushes. So carefully I choose them.
Does it matter?
Anyone could pick them, I think. They are public domain, in the minds and dictionaries of the universe. But those three belong together, and I choose them, and people like the flavor of the selections, the mixing and the way the plink complements the plunk.
Then they fall, and are gone.
And my tin cosmos is small.
And the people are still hungry, and I am still Sal, looking for my mother.