In quietest country, there’s a sound,
that of yourself. The self abhors
a vacuum of sound
and eases forward, looking around.
Between the monkey-voiced bird
and the purple rumble of storm
rearing its head at the valley’s rim,
you hear news you’ve been growing
in a cave so close you can’t see it.
The wind carries your name
inflected by the leaves
in the wind’s throat.
Let the lawnmower acres away
be embellishment, curls or curlicues
around your face in a child’s drawing,
the ubiquitous crickets are practically
the air from which you will step,
the foamy air, a latter-day Venus.
The quiet here drives some people mad,
the secret is out they never wanted
to look at much less tell.
If you hear nothing, it is the luxuriant voice
of your most honest self,
eloquent enough to break hearts.
Then the apples encourage
with their rhythm of thumps
against the earth. You live in frost.
Listen with me now. The coming quiet
needs you to hold it as it holds you.
This is where we part. Good luck.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
