The words are etched out in song,
now – a tune I know so well I may pick up
the piano or guitar, strum a few notes.
But I’ll just hum along instead,
painting in my mind with gentle strokes
to make the river flow: shades of gray glide
swiftly over rough waves, a rippling current
of long, sad notes I once wished to perfect
on my own. But if I open my eyes and just
listen at moments of silence such as this,
I swear I can still hear those watered-down
words, gliding into the warmth.
September 21, 2012