~

The beams, thirsty in their plumb aligned structure,

drink deeply of the improvised sound issuing from the garden

The cello’s notes satiating the kiln dried wood

~

In an upstairs bedroom a woman moves to the music

unbidden thoughts seeping in slow aching, wandering

the intimate landscape still mapped within her heart

~

Shaking them loose, she leans precariously out of the window

listening to the ripening tenor notes, admitting she’s

grateful now to be by herself yet questioning…

~

What am I to do with my internal tenderness?

There is no one here to reach for

listening to the first bird’s song?

~

This softening moves through her

seeking to be moored in the infinite, not in the observed

third person distance of Wife or Her or She

~

Bending her head to the low deep notes of the cello

the forest memory of its burnished wood

resonates between her thighs

~

I’ve reawakened the elasticity of my flesh

by becoming weightless, a quickening again

There is no measure in this

~

Vulnerable it moves too fluidly to have a name

it spreads out and collects

like dark pools reflecting sky after rain

““““““““““““““““““““““““““““

~

Painting….Peter Harskamp