This is a song
this is a song without music
for quiet people for those
who don’t need so much stimulation
who might prefer the softness of a spoon to the fork
or the burn of the sun swallowed by the horizon to any blazing
or the shush of a bird’s wing to its song
the wang of a slide guitar, one lonesome swish on the snare.
Explanation is overkill. The sh in shush, soft of spoon, the sibilant snare should speak for themselves. I awake late or early and hear the world roaring quietly, a tremendous chorus of small sounds. The moan of a train pulls me out of myself and into the cold. I huddle in my chair and stare into this screen where black shapes converge to form something bigger, something to fill the whiteness, a cipher searching for the secret combination to be heard.
Listen: It doesn’t help to say the word
“listen.” Shouting will never
it’s enough to sit here humming softly,
warming yourself with your own breath.
(Comments are off. I’m still treading cold water here, hopefully back into the saddle soon so we can chat about holidays, insomnia, recipes, family drama, and wish lists. I made a big pot of fabulous molé and since my whole family has the stomach flu, I’m eating it alone.)