Without Sound
Here I am about to ski into the day
dragging my brain along with me.
Some mornings it seems as if everything
holds it breath, waits for the first step.
On others I just fall off a cliff &
tumble into the moment thick with words.
What do my dreams say about this tag end
of the night colliding with bird song?
Sometimes it’s too early for the birds
& the silence hints of an unborn world.
Or is this then what death feels like,
this dark formlessness without sound?
© Zen Oleary
July 17, 2004
