Before the fracture, before the melting,
before mundane shifts to miraculous
and back, there is the wry pointillism
of skin gone goosebumps. Freeze still as a tree,
and listen. Whispered echoes of a voice
that hasn’t yet spoken shiver through air
as full of holes as torn fishnet stockings.
What is it that is about to happen?
All the buses change their schedules and routes
at once. No, not that. Well, that, but something
else. A mouse squirms between shingles, breaking
into a house that may or may not have
a cat. A soul stretches like it’s waking
from sleep, like a rubberband at the point
of breaking. And then it is, yes, broken.
Something fierce, something tremulous, something.
Claim the risk, the responsibility.
Is it a microscope or telescope?
It is forever. It is a moment
sung with drumming fingers. It expands, and
shrinks. It is a magnificat made small.
It is weeping made large. The days counted
like beads on a string are broken and roll
into cracks in the floors and walls. Trumpets
sound beyond time or hearing, but we aren’t
going there yet. Tree buds born pink and soft
will never be pink again, but here they,
right now, arc toward a wordless sky that is
new to them, in a moment like petals.
Brush your dreams like watercolors. Fold them
into birds that fly, into frogs that jump.
Tune yourself like a piano string. Don’t speak.
Be patient. Be ready. Something will change.