Mandolin

 

 

What, besides fine dust, layers this object?

Joy, discovery, frustration, regret, fear, failure. 

To my visitor, it is a decoration

With its golden-brown body and its mother of pearl.

 “Why don’t polish it?” She asks.

I acknowledge the neglect and answer her,  

“You only see the dust.”

Christmas, 2020

 

 

This year, I will master silence
I will  make less noise than a snake’s tongue
Footsteps quieter than an ant’s procession
Words like the snap of a spider’s web
A blinking eyelash whipping the skin.
 
Instead of speaking, I will listen
The birds will praise my subtlety in song
And I will recognize each of their voices
In the night I will walk below a chorus of moon and twinkling stars
I will hear the brush of my ghostly gown along the pebbles
And the worms plowing the earth
 
Instead of moving, I will be still
Nests will be built in my hair
Possums will curl their bare tails around my limbs
Bats will crash into me and fall to the grass
and I will ponder the sound of each hair on each blade
For eternity.
 
And then, next year, I will master invisibility.