Purple song

A song breaks through a row of purple jacaranda trees, their boughs trembling in sedate rhythm. A group of women are singing in the park —a hymn, a soulful paean, full of praise for the creator, full of gratitude for creation. I imagine their eyes. Their bodies shining. I imagine mynahs and barbets lined up on branches, listening. I imagine stillness perched on a limb. Do birds feel the need to be thankful? To whom?

between rain and river and cloud
just the sun
not seeing…not knowing

I struggle for language in a murky space. Must I write an ode to this insistent despair? Be thankful for its amorphous presence, its angled ambiguity, its sightless eyes that berate me in silence? The music obfuscates the light. Separates word from meaning. What is the edge of gratitude? What birds listen in the trees beyond it? To whom?

talk to me
broken moon:
dark side to dark side

There is the crescendo. Then the quiet. Then the flapping of wings. Then the jacarandas straightening. Then the echo. Then the hum. The tune running in my head. Over and over. Glory and appreciation. A guilty indebtedness. But what of pain? What of loss? What of yesterday? Do wounds have a grammar for praise? A lexicon for thankfulness? To whom?

wing against wing
a cricket chirps
calling for a mate

I experiment with becoming. With counting the infinite. With holding the eternal. With knowing what cannot be known. With taking a point of grief and stripping it of dimensions. With adding the immeasurable. With being nothing. The song plays at the intersection of life and faith. How do I account for what never was? How do I return what can never be? To whom?

somewhere
in the monsoon sky:
grey rainbows

#Poetry