Although special, singing
has never been my forte:
I find it hard to feel for sound
and coalesce my heart and mind
with earth and fire without a crowd of
apparitions getting in the way.
But, yesterday, six of us drove out
to a raging riverbank in the frost
and sparked a little fire to dance and sing
around
under blue sky. A dusky moon
lit up a warning light. Open mouthed,
carousing to a churning
water slap, we floated cares downstream
and harmonized a rich, brown god
who turns and never stops, as far as
I can tell. At the end, our fire roared
with wind
into a start of silence.
Back
in
the kitchen, all talk stopped, all
bodies quiet: the moon, floating, somehow
in its blackness, chose to howl; to shine.
