Poetry is music, but the reverse is also true.
Listen to this, and it will make your Thursday better.
The summer dusk,
Falling close and airless on our shoulders,
Tucks its ragged edges into the grass roots,
Settling in for the night.
The jaded sky hangs overhead
And we hug our knees,
Sweat coating our skin and dampening our clothes
While we stare into the trees.
Not a bough moves,
Each leaf is paralyzed,
Save the tiniest rustles of insect feet
That traverse the thin veins of their green faces.
Flowers, which typically dip and sway themselves to sleep,
Droop in the heat,
Immobile slumbering, ill-at-ease,
Their thin fronds and petals drying moment by moment.
We, too, can hardly bear to sit here,
The grass prickling our clammy skin,
But we remain passive,
Too uncomfortable to move our sweat-slicked limbs,
To push the limp hair back from our empty eyes,
To stretch our bare feet out, dirty from the day.
The stagnation is appealing, somehow,
So that we cannot leave it,
Cannot break it,
As though some harsh spell of stillness has been cast.
The light continues to weaken,
The sun fading into the horizon like an anchor.
The world is hushed and we dare not speak,
But in the dark we see the first firefly,
The small flare sent out to break open the night,
And now the slightest breeze wakens us all.
Over The Rhine’s “I Will Not Eat the Darkness”