Sometimes it’s the music that calms me,
The sound of her voice,
Weaving words as silken threads,
Crisscrossed across my mind.
Other times it’s the books,
Piled high,
A fortress and salve to my heart,
Passages wrought with broken pen.
Oft it is the trees, a forest on high,
Refuge deep and dark
Unprincipled gathering of hearth,
A home without the rain.
Then there is the storm,
Unnaturally calm,
Loud enough to drown my tears,
Soft enough to keep away.
The ocean waves.
Hear their whispers,
Patterns of rhythm in time,
Aching to reach the shore.
All are but poems,
Each restrained verse,
Harmonies broken, observed, diverse.
Though always repeated,
Never secure,
Of the lines and stanzas,
You can be sure.
For each eager sentence,
Vaguely arranged,
Desperate plea, cunningly estranged,
Is a cry, for naught but peace.
Moonlit Poetry 