The Day Was a Blank Canvas

The Day Was a Blank Canvas

(“I’ve become like a bottle dried up by smoke, though I haven’t forgotten your statutes.” Psalm 119:83)

Waiting for the signs to appear, I
walk through the fire only to find
the embers have been smoking half the day long.
The air stood still waiting for the next
storm battering the coast. They stack up,
one after the other, like a traffic jam out of the city.
The day was a blank canvas waiting to be painted.
The day was a break between breaths that we took for granted.

Waiting for the highlighted songs, I
listen through the heavy air only to hear
the consonants sounding like your name.
The wind reversed course as the day played on.
The strings were legato, the woodwinds were
swing, the brass was reflecting the unwritten
measures like the first time they were learned.

The fog wrapped the river like an afternoon nap
on this fawned early autumn day. The sap
is slowing as the days wane.

I know your words, I know your brow
that’s knit at the unlikeliest sounds. I know
trauma hangs like a leaden thought balloon.
Last year’s winter was harsh. Last year
an asterisk
held the place for comments at the bottom
of the page. I know your words. I know how
silently the sage and smoke change the tune
at least for a day.