It is a sky of somber fire, growing build of ember. Wide swathes of cascading hills atop blackened plains. And everything feels a song. Purpose in purple strands reaching in glob├ęd fingers. They close into darkness, and the stars dance a chorus in entry.

And I cannot find the name of the scene before me. And I cannot find my place.  And my voice is a rasp on the melody, a noise in the peace. 

A whisper asks courage.

The song falls to the ground and walks circles. Turning and turning around my feet. My eyes twist in the mael. My hand is slow behind the music. Chasing the spin, dizzy in dance.

And I cannot learn the pace. And I cannot catch the circling chant. And I cannot repeat. And I cannot speak. And my voice is a rasp on the melody.

A whisper asks courage.

So I speak a quiet song.

1 comment:

Garnett said...

This is actually one of my favorite things I've read of yours... I used this word on your last post, but what strikes me is how accessible this is. You gave it away freely here. And it love it. And I ache over it.