Did we sing before we spoke, you and I?
Did we listen to the song that lights the rain:
a love song the water brings
on tides too swift to swim through? Songs
as sung by our ancestors, distant voices
too far away to distinguish, too close
to understand , too bright to darken—
too hot, too windy, too fragrant…
the candle calling light back
into the darkness, a song,
a scandal, an anguish. Speech lip-red.
I too wish to go on singing—
a song sung but not remembered by a man sworn
to silence too long ago to redeem
the idea of approaching winter:
like mist amid the rows of a pale corn,
the sky dark and cloudy, the snow about to fall.
Could we sing? Asking what?
Singing what? Seeing what? We
can do all this and more.
It is like a pond populated with wishes
where words form like minnow’s feet amid
the circle-like ripples the rain makes
as it drops into the water.
It is as if we were feeding the pond bread,
as if the minnows…
as if they’d come to the surface
to sing songs in the air.