Poetry is music, but the reverse is also true.
Listen to this, and it will make your Thursday better.
Like the sound of footsteps in leaves
Dead and left over from winter,
Frozen and thawed,
Weakened time after time until they crumble to dust
At slightest touch.
Like trees stretching over your head,
Their arms full of new buds that you won’t see
Until they fall under your shoes,
And then you’ll hardly notice them –
But now they hold your eye,
Waving like hands at the point of each bough and twig.
Like the path,
Nearly hidden in a blanket of coarse loam
And the overgrowth of wild hedges,
Swept-earth dirt smooth with age,
This track has known few feet
That did not belong to deer or mice,
And has been here longer than your memory serves.
Like the chirp of a robin you can never see,
But who, no doubt, is watching.
The murmurs of vines follow you
As you wander further.
(Note: Because of the minute length and general magic, I often listen to this song on a loop.)
Agnes Obel’s “Tokka”