Listen.
Listen!
I'm talking to your spirit.
Move aside, so it can hear.
I keep returning here to walk
in this suit of cells
and tell the story of the source.
To those who listen,
it reverberates
like a drum struck in a gorge.
To those who don't,
it's as silent
as an ant's scream in the city.

Light pours into my palms,
forcing me out of my own way.
I am embraced by the thick August wind
and flown on the tree tops in search of the dew's source.
I ride the sun's yellow streamers
that filter through leaves and settle on sweet grass and sage.
I speak of the forgotten thing.

If you try to catch it with your ears,
you'll hear only your own voice
talking nonsense.
But if you take off your head
and set it aside
your heart will grow large
upon your shoulders
and you'll hear the
voices of the spirits--
at first a faint hum, like moth's wings,
then a choir of fireflies
singing on the breeze.

All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©