If She Sang…

Maybe it is better
Never to know you.
But your breath
Clouds the mirror,
And words are hard to come by,
These days.

She began to gray,
And grow wild,
In waiting
For the drawing-in
Of September.

And she watched
The grass grow
Heavy and brown
And drop its seeds
In the dew.
She listened.
It was all she could do.

Too open by half,
But it soothed,
And she began to break
The code.

The nights grew cool enough
At last
To turn dew to fog —
How long, it seemed,
We had waited for them —
Those sunlit clouds
Rising from the creek.
And the whispers
Recommenced.

Notice these
Strange similarities.
Coincidence of thought —
And all that birdsong
That echoes through the thing.

Pieces fell into place,
She recognized that voice,
In everything.
She tripped along the track,
And because the heart must have an object,
And because she was not looking
(Hunkered down,
Head beneath her wing),
It began to choose
Against her inclination.

She fashioned this
Unlikely friend.
And crooned quietly
Over her creation.
Like any new mother,
She worried
About an arrow too true
And winter drifts.

Pull back from it, now.
Keep it checked,
Watchful for unreason.
Write it down.
And write it down.
And write it down, again.

Infused with the never-to-be requited,
She tried,
In vain,
To apply the careful,
Plodding,
Unwinding,
Deciphering
Of thought and reason to it.
But lost,
As ever,
All she could do in the end
Was open the window
And listen,
Then record it —
This code —
And allow its reading
And re-reading
To become a salve.

And she wished,
Too,
For you to find that bottle
With its curling brown paper.
Because,
My unknown friend,
Muse,
She wondered
(Though she feared it)
If her scribbled messages
Might reach you,
Too.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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