For a Musician Who Does Not Hear the Silences
I heard the forest grow this morning
And supposed you would have suffered it as silence.
Unused to hearing at this frequency,
Could you have missed the love songs of birds filling unseen nests above?
Would you fathom the last whisper of the fluttering cherry blossom
in its movement to a new measure of fertility?
Might you sway to the breathing of this moisture-moving planet
pulsing in the bent and breezy tree crowns?
I sense the rhythm of newly unrolled leaves sucking in the sunlight
of their nourishment.
The whole is throbbing, moving, singing . . . .
I wish you could hear it through my ear buds.
Oblate Rob Wilson , 2021