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that old soft music
by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

cold morning mists
envelop the world
an old woman, alone in my room.

I shell walnuts
as the wounded
moments tick away.

your words like shadows hang from branches
with every cell inside of me
I listen for the wind.

my naked heart
full of metaphor
hears the slow rhythm of raindrops.

that old soft music
beckons
past wounds are reopened

I count the days on a wooden abacas
until the sun shines
upon us in the same bed,

I gather up empty
walnut shells
crushed and broken–

the rain on window panes
will soon be rivers to the sea




from the forthcoming book The Song of Sparrows

 

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