Sometimes, when I am writing, and I can't
quite hear the words in my mind, I speak them --
quietly -- so as not to frighten them away,
listening for the gentle resonance
of vowel sounds repeating themselves,
calling out to one another in a language of air,
their small sheltering caves echoing.
I listen for the well intentioned but uninvited,
the idea lacking grace, the bum note;
and I am reminded at times of my mother
who learned to play guitar this way,
listening closely to the Grand Old Opry
and the Hit Parade coming through that old
wooden radio, like a temple glowing,
pausing her mother's 78s again and again,
lifting its needle and setting it down at the start
to catch what didn't want to be caught,
to pull forth a sound she could already hear.
Sometimes I need to be reminded of
how to listen deeply, of the line that runs
directly from ear to heart, bypassing
all else, the sound of a single strum and a single
voice alone in a room, as simple as that,
the way all good songs begin.
