It
is not enought to long,
though that longing swells within
until the mouth is pried open and something escapes,
a cry or a song,
a wild sound flowering in the air --
it may be beautiful, but there must be more.Often I'm distracted by the ululent
sirens,
the rumble of locomotives in the center of town,
the wind advancing through the trees.
But occasionally I hear a sound that is not
a sound at all.
It enters the body not through the ears only,
but the eyes, the nose, the skin
and vibrates at the body's center.
And for an instant the whole body hums
with a song that comes from nowhere,
that comes from everywhere,
that is about nothing,
but there is nothing it does not contain.
As I piece together these
scraggly sentences, pruning the excess,
I ask that something pure branches out
that grows not from me.
If it is a song, let it be a song without notes;
if it is a poem, let it be a poem without words.
Let it resonate from the trees as I pass.
|
