I’ve shed the scapegoat role
worn for years, waking
in this lush sanctuary. Sunrise
a quail’s liquid quiver
resonates my singing strings
untangles me from dreams.
Usually they dissipate but like this
waning moon today they’re vague
and distant, still visible
in early morning sky. I feel
myself regenerate, a new version
smooth velvet where all the rough
edges have been burnished by
relentless trauma released.
Birds call from hidden
trees behind this high green hedge,
simultaneous and exotic,
as if time has relinquished an
imaginary boundary so we all
call to each other. Just now
a snowy egret flies above me.
White moon, white bird, white clouds
embraced by tender blue.
I remember love and joy and laughter,
sweet welcome, wisps of my
night-time travels coloring
my senses as I greet this day
with all these recently uncovered
remnants–so long denied now
trilling, chitter, twitter, peep,
flutter, rustle, peerow, peerow,
cloreet, cloreet. Sixty-one years
existing with unseen musicians,
and here I am eye-openly deep
lost for words.