So much music in a paper tube:

a whispering, precise diction—

crickets! racketing their brittle song,

a tunnel of grace notes and raspy vocabulary

run amok.

 

The sound of movement:

Scrabble tiles spelling a skedaddle of mice in the walls,

crisp leaves scuffing down the tree-canopied street,

hoof beats of time’s tiny cavalry:

my children’s running footfalls followed by my grandchildren’s.

 

Active contradictions:

the sound of water made by what is dry,

computer keys tapping out some message

no one will ever read,

a tumultuous train of thoughts

on a short, impeded journey to nowhere.

 

All of these—

many small hands applauding the day.

 

© by Paula Schulz.

Used with the author’s permission.