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There Is Music in My Head

where before there was only silence.

  Strings being bowed and plucked.

Feet tapping. Hands knead

  against a board. A pounding staff.

Call and yelp. Water a-gurgle. There’s

  a music in my head like a clearing in the woods.

Do you hear it? Lips on the flute. Winding

  through the reeds. I was lost, so lost,

the path too thin to follow. It was dark.

  Couldn’t see a damn thing in those pines. But

now the blue-green day brings its sound

  of honeysuckle and mushroom. The slim trees

bend and beckon. The naked clover wants

  to be touched. Everything clusters and bursts.

The notes scale the hollow. The notes run

  to the ridge, then over they fall, water down

the rocks like a laughing, like a laughing.

  The bow goes over and under. A fiddling.

A fondling of butterflies in the hint of spring.

  The first bee in the clutch of the sweet. I am

singing my way out. I am singing my way out

  of the brickyards, from the stones.

Listen for me in the clearing. I can’t keep this

  to myself.