Today I haven't written down
anything profound. Instead I've
sat around, trying
to listen to the sound of humility.
I've had coffee, given in
and read the news, marveled at both
the boldness of power
and the obduracy of conspiracy.
I've walked around systematically
and seen the clouds,
dense and deep white, keeping vigil
over a haunted neighborhood—
its buildings like busts
of pagan idols with craven
looks upon their faces,
its tulips and daffodils, only
mid-april, already learning how
to hang their callow heads in disgrace.
I've watched a few buses
and delivery trucks
diminishing down the monochrome avenue
and imagined somber cold-cave echoes
of Gregorian Chants playing
simultaneously on all of their radios.
And of course, I've head the birds,
timid at first, then growing
gradually louder as the day crescendos,
as if pleading with the half-hidden sun
for salvation—not for themselves,
but on behalf of the rest of us.