Following this noise
My wife chews
on a crunchy cookie
as she breathes
through her nose
next to me.
Our child turns
a page in her journal and
sniffs on the futon in the studio,
headphones playing music
we cannot hear.
Our two friends
on the couch and
in the child’s borrowed bed,
both snore softly.
Traffic in the six lanes
out front swishes and shushes
in the rain and occasionally
clump-umps on a
loose manhole cover.
The washing machine
and a jet overhead
in the night
in a soft duet.
Our new neighbors,
still settling in, move about
upstairs, unsettling nothing,
while I lie here
about it all
on such a quiet night.
Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....
It was in valleys like this that
the land spoke. The earth itself shared
its language of place and time. The
when and where of life was known. The
earth spoke in a forgotten tongue
like fingers speak to hands, like hands
speak to arms, like arms speak to chest
and chest sings the songs of fingers,
knows the beat of feet and feels the
soles' words of water, roots and rock.
This song was known to the singer
even when unsung, sprung from the
same womb, as close as cadence, as
rhythm as rain, as known as the
nails of one's hands, unnoticed for
its constant presence. Its lack is
the death of us all, its dearth is
a black wall that hides us from our
selves, our once embraced, now banished,
bare and prodigal pantheons.