morning poem, august 8, 2016



In the pale, early morning the floorboards are cold

Out the window the grass is quiet and the old, low shacks

Rest beneath the drooping walnut trees

As they have for a hundred years

She turns in the bed and the sheets rustle

But there is no outside noise

Like looking onto a silent movie

Till at last the shudder of some far away truck

Shifting low to climb some hill.



If we are quiet enough for long enough

Can we hear the sound of time passing?

Is it a faint ticking of a clock

Or the barely audible rush of some jet

A thousand miles away?


Copyright 2016

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