But Silence Also
The wind remembers what you forget:
A song is composed of notes and words
and music, yes, but silence also.
When a bird sings, does its song echo
in its hollowed bones? Why is it
that no matter how lost you got or get,
home is always right where you wake,
where you woke? A robin is making a nest
from strands loosed from your head,
and lint and thread from your clothes.
You’ll call those eggs your own. If they hatch,
you’ll try to feed those mouths. You’ll morn
when the unfledged chicks fall to the ground.
You flinch, mistake the flap of a flag
for the wings of a crow. Go on, sing
your song. Open your mouth.
No sound comes out. Your silence says:
Death lives in these bones. I know, I know.