∴

if you stand
in a sea of tall grasses
on a windy day
you will begin to sway

your hair will fly in rebellion against its sturdy root
like kite tails in an angry altitude

and your feet will plant down
down
into the ground
to keep the body from bending

but still,

you will sway.

·

sway
because the steppes are a current
and a rustling lullaby

sway
because there is a dancer at your stern –
breast to back –
and holding you

sway
because the tempest demands it
and confide in the grasses
as they whip

·

you, who walk out
and into them,

sway.

∴

∴

words are promises
no matter how minuscule or concise

they bind in the mind
pictures and possibilities

they build and break and recycle old structures

while so many words flutter around
like leaves in a whirlwind,
less than a few
– carefully selected –
can alter the course of our lives.

they do not reverse
they do not recant
they make holes like nails

and even when removed

leave marks

and no water lays over the gap

words do not escape
they are dutiful to cages
and if not released

can never be known

beautiful beasts
mastered by muscle:

inspired in the heart
and formed at the tongue
calling hands and feet into motion.

how many words have we said to each other?
how many more words are wanting?

i am speaking them all

can you hear?

∴

∴

i fly at the sight of cages, storms, and monsters.

so let me go.
let me live in the wild
and i will sing for you
a free and haunting song.

·

what notes i do not utter
with audible tune
i’ll issue with a wing
and a movement on the wind.

·

what nests i do not build
with structure and frame
i’ll deliver with gifts of silk
and tinsel
and leave them at your sill.

·

so let me go.
let me live in the wild
and i will sing for you
a free and haunting song.

and perhaps even remind you

that you can sing, too.

∴

how long have i known you?
when did i lose you?
how many times have i seen the whites of your eyes?

and why is your back such a familiar slope,
that i can still feel it
without touching?

‘cause i’m sure i knew you
before your name had passed my lips

and i’m sure i loved you
before i looked down
after that one, first time
i looked up

and saw

you

there’s a memory in the woods
there’s a picture under water
there’s a glimpse of us together
and smiling
from across the room
and i keep thinking,
when did that happen

or has it just not happened yet?

i’ve never been good at remembering.

past tense
is clouded by opinion
and shrouded in outcome
and colored incorrectly
by the crayons of present day

but the future
– tomorrow –
is a china plate
and somehow,
without knowing how,

i love you in that, too.

i asked him once,

“why have you left us alone
in such a great, big life –
in this world so wide?”

and he said,

“you are not alone.
look at all that I have given
for a friend.”

·

“i have given you the cattails for company.”

but the cattails do not talk back.
they only sway and mock.

·

“i have given you the stone for support.”

but the stone does not embrace.
there is no chest to rest my head upon.

·

“i have given you the winds to speak with.”

but the winds have no ears with which to hear
all that I want to say.

·

“but they do,”
said he,
“they do.
cattails, stone, winds,
and countless creations more,
talk and hold and hear,

for i am in them all.”

∴

resonance

noun \ res·o·nance  \ ˈre-zə-nən(t)s , ˈrez-nən(t)s

1.) the intensification and enriching of a musical tone by supplementary vibration
2.) a quality of richness or variety
3.) a quality of evoking response
4.) the sound elicited on percussion of the chest
5.) a synchronous gravitational relationship of two celestial bodies (such as moons) that orbit a third (such as a planet) which can be expressed as a simple ratio of their orbital periods

we are such instruments
each of us, all
we sing our songs –
solitary melodies –
until a compatible chord finds us,
a rhythm and a groove
that matches the beat in our hearts

and not all of us pair well together:
cymbals drown the piccolo
and flutes fly past the bass
oboes cry what horns salute
and violins force the race

bird song, cricket cry
who can match this song of mine?

it’s not that the songs we sing
on our own
are meritless –
even a cappella is gripping
when sung true
but still…
still…

i play the cello.
and the strings are tuned in fifths
and when the pitch is perfect
you can draw the sound
from two strings
simultaneously –
two notes, intoning –

and a third sound – a vibration – is produced.

it’s not a note, it’s not a key
it’s a cry of astral harmony

isn’t that us?
so many things beyond our control
must line up to create that sound:

timing

tuning

tension

pressure

pulsing

pitch

but that third sound
that we are capable of making
by just being dulcet and different

together…

there is no sound like it in the world.

i watched an old lady
mash the crumbs
of a forgotten meal
into the back of a fork
and feed them to a little boy

she did not pontificate
about the needless wasting of food
nor the shortage of morsels in the world
she did not scold
and berate and say,
“see what you’ve wasted, here”

she did not begrudge the plate for it’s hard surface
nor the utensil for the space between it’s limbs.

she just mashed crumbs
into the back of a fork
and fed them to a man in the making

and she smiled

with her lips and her eyes
and held the fork steady
while he licked it clean

and he sang while he ate.