Eventually there is only the sound of the river—
what sang all day beneath the sound of dishes
clinking in the sink, beneath the carousing of crickets,
beneath the shrieks of children and the messages
left on the phone, beneath the chatter of my mind
that always swings its creaky gates, what sang all day
is still singing. It asks nothing, and in this moment
it is impossible not to give it everything—though
that is when we might start to notice that beneath
the river’s constant rush is an underhush. As any
composer knows, a tune is lost without the rests.
Somewhere inside the river song is a dry, voiceless bed,
blank as the paper the symphony’s written on—empty
beneath the staves. Eventually there is only
the sound of the river. Then that, too, fades away.
Good title (though “The Rests” Might Go Too) & Damn Good, What Follows, Too/ Thanx.
The Rests yes. I like it a lot. Thanks!
From: “comment-reply@wordpress.com” Reply-To: Date: Thursday, June 25, 2015 at 11:55 PM To: Rosemerry Trommer Subject: [A Hundred Falling Veils] Comment: “Mercy of Night”
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A delight. I like the structure, you fold thoughts in on themselves, several times, until there is no dimension, merely a delightful feeling left
Hey, thanks Rick
From: “comment-reply@wordpress.com” Reply-To: Date: Friday, June 26, 2015 at 6:22 AM To: Rosemerry Trommer Subject: [A Hundred Falling Veils] Comment: “Mercy of Night”
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I love the word “underhush” so much I think it belongs in the Dictionary of Wonderful Words. So audibly like the undertow, so quietly like the music.
add my vote, too, for underhush.
throughout the clamor of the day, the clamor of monkey-mind, is this song. as we, and the people/things about us, tumble and turn, this constant. yet deeper still, underneath even this sound of the river, is simply the river—no song, no sound, just “is.” and, all the rest