User Review( vote)
written by: Shelly Norris
Some mornings barrel in, head on
careening straight out of the mineshaft
hauling up the night shift and unordered cargo.
Inside the echo of clattering cars
still loaded with yesterday’s steaming slag
a semi-consciousness anticipates
orchestration—some sort of birdsong
to herald the onrush,
expects to crest into firelight
atop the refrain of some cosmic love
song, some sudden insight— and wonders
Where are the flutes?
Where are the violins?
Belying still dusky surfacing seconds
a memory from the candle
flame of an ancient age—
of a piccolo’s shy lilt—
casts a merry shadow along the stone
wall dancing about the notion
that we could remain
here, in this half dream
slide stepping sideways.
Everyone’s intentions are good.
Perhaps settling wouldn’t be so bad.
But then a cardinal’s trill reminds
what has taken lifetimes to learn:
The sun is not called, but summons.
It is we who tunnel underground
seeking fortunes and burrow away
from the gods. Each day’s business
is about nothing less than the soul.