Stillsong

Here is the text should you want to play around with it.  I consider it art therapy.

Stillsong

There is no air.
Still.
I reach out and touch
the wind chimes,
to prime their pump.
Then I hear
the breath of buckwheat blossoms,
the smoothness of an ebony fretboard,
the sight of your full grin.
I pluck the chimes again.
I taste mock orange,
I feel a black kitten’s  fur in the sun,
I hear the dammed up pressure
of want and need.
The chimes of it all
resonate,
amplify,
dampen.
This wave and particle of sound
takes a long time
to reach you.
Still.
Bidden,
the spirit rises
and you sing
an aria to me.
a stillsong.  

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