after "Split Bush" by Harry Bertoia
This life teases out of you an incongruous song
made of stair steps and questions and flipping of birds.
But the world sings you back to you in thousands of tongues.
The throwing of bowling balls and the spanking of gongs,
the tripping of triplets and the ripping of shirts--
they're all just a part of your incomplete song.
Vibrations recycle before very long.
And even the thud of your feet in the dirt
the world will sing back to you in thousands of tongues.
The air that you squeeze out of overused lungs.
The cries and the barks and the purrs and the words.
It's all just a part of your world-wooing song.
We are never alone so much as among.
Each gesture we make this planet records.
And this world sings you back to you in thousands of tongues.
Love itself is fine, as are lust and longing.
And there will come a happy answer from some exotic bird.
When you step outside and engender your songs,
the world sings you back to you in thousands of tongues.
JD Frey -- April 15, 2010