Tuning
Before the orchestra comes together,
the strings slide through a warm-up —
the promise of a melody about to bloom.
Have an ear for music — the mountains
unspin their heavy winter sweaters.
Hear this — the earth breaks apart
like sunflower halva pulled into strands,
its black clods grainy and buttery.
The first chord is neither a blossom, nor a bird.
It’s me.
Listen again — the earth comes now
in mouthfuls of bread,
the black hunks moist and dense.
The first chord is neither rain, nor wind.
It’s you.
A fevered call before the words
settle into poetry —
a hint at music sprouting leaves.
Have my ear now — the hills
have slipped back into their green skirts.
I am the first violin, dusty with silence.
I’ll try to play a verse from the thick dusk within.
Tuning takes forever before I dare to write
for if I’m out of tune, I might disturb the spring.
