God's name wanders through everything,
Alpha to Omega, Ah to Zed, the la in Il’alla...
What dust is not a thread of melody?
What star is not uproarious,
shouting that Light?
There a liquid song that swells
in the throat at the death of a warrior,
the way smoke curls from a wick
just blown out, returning
to the lips that gave him breath.
A resonance in the electron
toned at the edge of a dogwood petal.
The wail of atoms in their entropy,
the keening of space.
The drone of peepers rehearsing
for Spring, plum buds gurgling
rain down to their seed bellies,
sigh of lovers turning over in the dark,
entwined in undulant furious ignition
even before they awake.
Tulips bursting, crying for more,
the quiet of the forest rattled
by woodpecker echos,
or the sound of no sound at all
from midnight till dawn,
except one ancient ululation
of a mateless coyote.
Did you dream that? Or was it
the memory of something heard
And this sound, listen! The blood
tumbling from your volcano of meditation
through forests of myths and stories
into the sparkling trout pool
of the amygdala.
When you yearn for the unspeakable,
any murmur you make says,
"Let there be light!"
What sigh is not a revelation?
A moan, however it emerges, must be true.
The peepers pause, then start over.
They'll get it right.
What sound is your breath making now?
Even the wildest weed, the tiniest petal,
scribbled with your syllable of prayer!