I turned a deaf ear to the music of the spheres,
Blind to ratio song and measured integers;
Mythic starshine punched big-picture storybooks
Into the sky stained blue-black, like the ink cartridge
That exploded in my mouth when I bit deeply
Into stray thoughts while scribbling third-grade cursive—
Swoops, crosses, and dots blotted, broke, and smeared the will
Of stern instruction patterned on a dull-green blackboard.
This winter’s beat went arrhythmic, and I lost count
To rain pattering crystals on the window panes,
To wordless chatter coldly clicking my teeth,
To sun tease-pulsing the thermometer’s mercury,
To stirred birds twittering a false-alarm spring;
This high-strung pizzicato nightmared my daydreams—
Then my fingers fitfully plucked at bedcovers
As the blue moon squeezed through slats of my shuttered room—
Too close for comfort until coppering reddish.
I opened the blinds; the moon’s shadow man gazed back,
And my blood tuned to a cello’s sonorous warmth,
Mellowing to that ancient call—the tears of things.
Note to readers: I schedule posts a day ahead. What time do you typically read posts? Comments welcome!