I, II, III, IV —

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.

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.”

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.

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


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s