Does It Make a Sound?
Peter T. Atkinson
The gentle breeze that cools me I feel
On my neck and in my ear, and the
Bugs are blown away. They must be
Because they are gone, but when
The breeze dies down, I feel the sun,
Heat now where there had been cool
And that damn gnat is back in my face.
I hear the songs of morning, the bugs,
Louder and softer, in waves echoing,
The breeze and the heat. Do they
Change, or do I? As I ask, It tells me,
One voice, a solo within the song,
One singing voiced insect or frog
Gets louder, above the rest as if to say,
“We are here, and you don’t control us.
Our song exists despite you, in spite of you.
You’ll be gone and our song will go on,
Wave by wave, with the breeze blowing,
The sun warming, and the invisible hand,
Grasping tightly, directing each in harmony.”
But yet, I think, “I’m here, and my open senses
Experience them, when I’m still and awake,
I hear them, and see them, and feel them.
How much truth am I asleep to, when locked
Inside walls of stone and thought, my world?
My own world? Point of view matters,
Even mine, but it should be awake, free
From those walls, welcoming and welcome
To the world and what it has to say,
Especially when It or I am wrong.”