Old broken
record player
makes imagined music
like a visitation
of a jubilant summer
composer. Out the window
there is birdsong
and wind in the branches
as if all of creation
is welcoming the ear
to the mother tongue
of love and silence.
Holy. Holy. Holy.
I turn up the volume.
Photo by Muhammed ÖÇAL on Unsplash
Beautiful!
“mother tongue” I never thought of . . .so beautiful. Thank you,
Yes to the agency of turning up the volume, as in paying attention – to loop in Mary Oliver. Thank you!