Words / Not Words

I listen in pre-dawn to
the faint echoes of music
sung from earth's breath,
melodies that we ignore,
caught up as we are
in the creations
of our own minds,
these words we make
from clay, fall in love with
and think are real,

the hot skybreath of morning
rolls across my eyelids,
invites me to leap out of
the confines of mind skin
and the limits of language,

to press my face in wet grass,
smell the pungency of damp soil
and unfurled leaves,
feel the softness of a hungry worm
as it inches across my arm,
taste the sweaty outbreath of
a squirrel chittering,
hear the random chords struck
by wind scraped leaves,
crickets restless in sleep,
birds' song from rooftops and
grasses bending under fox feet,

it invites me to scrabble
in the soil below words,
this breath infusing my soul
with sun music,
it tempts me with bliss,
delight and dance,
I smile a crinkle-eyed yes.

© Zen Oleary
May 31, 2003