Let The Static Leave

There is a woman singing about the flowers she sells
in the cobblestone alley.
She walks down the street with her basket
purple, blue and orange
petals of angels silk -
they bend slightly in the wind
she bundled them tightly
she wrapped them up in ribbons
with colorful victorian patterns.
The clarion shrill of the voice falls up against the stone walls

The act is ancient
sounds of voices and stones are meant to meet-

I imagine another voice
a very long time ago-
at the highest peak of Mount Kilimanjaro in a village
carved out of the side of a cliff.
it echoes in the snow
climbs up the tall sides of the rock
looking for the solace
of warmth and long arms

her voice

dissipates,
cast out like fog hovering over leaves.
just after the morning dew-

that opaque place between the density of the white smoke
and the beginning of the leaf-
that’s where you want to go .

just a dew drop resting on a green leaf

swimming in a temporary cloud

I like it when the room is completely empty
and you can still see the markings from the vacuum on the carpet -
when there is no one in the house.

when the fan is blowing on the floor
after it has been mopped
and the room is clean
and I will lay down
with my head pressed to the ground. 

I just want the moss beneath my fingernails
I want the sun setting over petra
I want to fall asleep to the sound of voices humming against stone.

I’ll walk backwards from the room,
to the front door.
The sounds of grasshoppers
lightning bugs
the mellow glow of the porch lamp.
It just rained
I feel the sidewalk wet on my bare feet.

will you go too?

let’s fall asleep on a pillow
in a field of tall grass
just before dusk

the silence of nature fills our ears
like invisible water
as we drift away
together