The Sound Of

The Sound Of

I needed to hear heaven,

and so, the road

exuded the sound of

an angel's voice

instead of soaring engine.

The mechanisms of

the machine

heard in the measured doppler shifts

of the star's vibrations

hummed, hummed

into the mating calls of a bird,

the first split of an infant's cry

staccato as the slow, cylindrical

spin

of a doll's voice.

Summer

became the deep, bellow

of it,

the sound of

thunder

that left a soft petal's bloom -

open palms everywhere

became the silent steady sound of

a hope

to sustain -

Spin, and the waves of you

cannot contain themselves -

you say to the distant ones

'you were the star'

they say 'no, you are.'

'We're chasing you.'

I needed to hear heaven,

and so, the mind became a sieve

sifting carillons

from the cacophony of horns,

the rows of candles

separated the well-wishes

from their imperfect humans.

I needed to hear them

and the silence let me

absent a choir

or assembly of chants.

I learned a sound is

anything received.

I said show me,

and in the dawn,

the ground glowed.

My eyes, before the mind was aware

gravitated.

Author's Note

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