Evening Poem, August 25, 2014

The Sound At Twilight


The sky is dull blue and the branches

Still plush with leaves, darken

I sit on the porch, tired of the day

Waiting for that infernal mower next door

To shut down

Waiting for quiet, for the time of exhale


And the mower finally stops

But there is no silence

The sound that was always there

But that the mower hid

rises, envelops and engulfs

seeming to increase

with every ratcheting pulse

How could I have forgotten this

The noise of the ten thousand insects

in the grass and trees

is everywhere

As if it were the very sound of the planet turning

the friction of the globe against the sky

Or the song of the very soil

As if a day never ended any other way.


copyright 2014

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