Wednesday, December 7, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

My mother, who taught Latin and music, theorized about the gradual improvement
of tone matching. I sang in perfect pitch non-solo vocals. To reveal the tone poem
in my heart. My mother pointed out the treble clef framed by her picture window.
She showed me how it changed: squirrels and a pair of cardinals in the yard.
She took my happiness and drew it on an envelope. I found her Palmer script
throughout the house, within a composition notebook where she listed names
of all the seven dwarfs. I am a reasonable woman now, a daughter all my life.
I listen for the tuning fork never to change. Never to dampen spirits for better
and for worse. The time to chaperon a change is now. I take into myself the better
distance from a miracle. The sound I crave is whisper proof (of whispers). The kind
of music I adore is middle-of-the-night breath, your light snores. Those many ways
to bother being safe at all.

Saffron silk, including breeze that offers better views of cover what it protects

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