Pull the languages of our ancestors From the marigolds bound across your wayward path. She awaits you. From the days you strung clover into crowns, Her answers have been promised on the wind. You’ve heard her when the moon is full. You’ve joined her dance on the water. Every time I abandon her mysteries for logic, That song returns in the form of a dappled sky, Pushing my pen with or without my aid. She’ll draw beauty from the deadest cells. She knows where the wick stays green. Under a kaleidoscope of stars, She recounts the harmonies I’d forgotten, Timbres bright in my blood. This wandering choir of bones, A transit for the history of the human race. In our most magic moments, We are the rhythm and the verse. We are the breath between notes. Close the miles and lend your tears to the descant. Shed your fears and caution To show us the visions you slip into after work. Ride the tremulous bonds bridging what was And what fantasies you were born upon To sculpt a midsummer dream you can sink your teeth into. Graphite and tea. Bare feet on the porch. There’s everywhere to go and endless roads. Someday you’ll take them all. Somehow you already have.
From: Vol.10 N.01 – Private: The Transformative Now
Choir of Bones
by Carolyn Kesterman