In this silence there are crescendos and flutters,
the constancy of pulse, distant wrens, a river
flowing beyond the cedars. I hear the shuffle of doubt.
How it pushes forward in this quietness. Longing
lisps across oak floors in tattered slippers.
Fear has no sound, but a coldness
that gathers in mute corners. It is here
in this hush, wreathed in stillness
that I hear my song. The thrum of wind
on water is in my breath. Spindrift
sighs and fades in lacey scallops.
In parchment whispers wings unfurl
to slice the silken sky. Seconds murmur
in the ebb tide, my declaration; I am here.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009