In spite of wind over the meadow There is a kind of silence hidden In this repose of your body.

One side of me is hot and the other Cold, stone cold. Silence of warmth, smile of silence, which slowly becomes

Music, the one the side of heat, is you. Dropping behind the mute towers, on the side of cold, is the sun.

Soon evening will come on Fireflies' wing. Dark will seep Into the hours that you hold

(You will, won't you?) out for me In the lines of your palms. There we will fall into song.

Sing silence, you sing. Sing golden stalks of wheat, your hair sings Sing stars of my night, your eyes sing. Sing young dogwoods, your waist sings. Sing sharp skyscrapers of the city, your bones sing. Sing the echoing spaces in between, I too sing.

At 2004 Dogwood Festival