A quiet morning, un-summoned
To hear how much
In a series of snapshots,
edges of drawn blind
hard wired into cracks of light.
Each lunch time is a long table
Brings down the dusty afternoon on it.
Each sunset is an orange yellow globe
Worth nothing, yes, nothing.
In between there are hours of void.
Unknowingly, a voice shut away.
In a series of letters, that’s a life’s work,Something like a hum spreading across
Any moment there will be sighs and tears.
Gently, very gently, grow into each other
The pace of it, the rhythm, beyond reach.
A resonance so painful, slips out of range
Left vibrating the tuning fork.
It’s reflective passage over mussed canvas,
Falls into disuse later,
As if we have learnt something fromThe pattern of tears around.