Poetry Collection Fall 2014: IV. Rhythm

Bump-bump.  Bump bump.
This is our first sound in the morning.
Mother’s rhythm, the rumbling lava flow through her veins;
the pulse of our own little hearts before we rise;
The pace of all that exists, the cadence of life.

We forget that some forget to breathe;
Shelved away behind the daily minutia of mortality.
Yet it taps away, indefinitely:
Unto our skin, among our ears, before our eyes,
Making sense of the day.

For it is the wind through our hair,
Gusting and dying, gusting and dying;
In the subtle hushhh! of the brook that rumbles;
It is our feet on the long roads we traverse,
sauntering, shuffling, and scuttling in time.

It is the cool patter of droplets upon our faces,
even in the simmer of the summer;
Our rhythm remains resolute.
Even when our daytime falls to eve,
It is the quick flicker of our dying candle wick.