I, II, III, IV —

I.
A voice is lost
among the vines of sound.
My fingers could not pick
the strand which holds
the ghostly vibrato
of a folk song trapped
somewhere in a dream.

II.
The boy pulled the calloused
chorus smitten with juvenile
desire. Put the conch near
your ear: listen to the sea;
put the conch near your heart:
listen to your mother’s whisper,
“Here I am, my fingers gently
strum your hair as you sleep.”

III.
She put the tired coda
on top of the wooden cabinet,
just a little near the rusty pin.
A sigh, topped with a wisdom
of a whisper, defined the night.
May you sing between breaths —
the air which holds the notes,
a coded calmness, sweetly serene.

IV.
I could never decipher
the riddle of her song.
Yet here I am, still listening.

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