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.”
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