The cricket drones
and an eternity passes.
As the night whispers on the ground below,
perched forever behind the star-soaked curtain of sky.
And the rain drips from the old gutters
to my windowsill
and onto the ground below.
Listen.
Wait.
You may hear the murmuring conversations
behind the windows of home.
A wisp of music
drifting on wind and mist,
caught in the dewy grass.
This world, half asleep,
falling into the arms of unconscious thought
and dreamless slumber
is a symphony.
Jamaica Plain,
Massachusetts
