Almost
I move closer
to decipher the sound.
It is the wind blowing across
the lips of the morning
moistened by melting frost.
It speaks in whispers.
My footsteps seem loud
and echo along the walls
of the laneway before
breaking out
into the bright sunshine.
I would like to be silence,
a blank medium
on which every note
of the morning is written,
cupped to pick up
the slightest sound,
the breath of sparrow
as it passes near,
the rustle of a moth
folding back its powdery wings
and the pop of a bubble
bursting on the still waters
of a pond.
There are countless
symphonies being played
that ripple across this absolute
quiet, songs to ease a tear
from my old eyes
that I can almost…almost hear.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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