Poetry is music, but the reverse is also true.
Listen to this, and it will make your Thursday better.
Your hands hang limp at your sides,
Feeling as empty as can be felt,
Fingers shifting in the air,
As though dreaming of a tune
Upon stuck piano keys.
No breath of air moves as your hands move,
Not as quiet,
Not with such slow breathless grace,
The subtle sweep and fall they make,
Absent, a waltz in the wind.
But more often now they still,
Halfway through motion.
And your fingernails are ragged and dirty
From anxious teeth
And gripping flowers too tightly,
Now as they sway,
Your fingers shake, quivering,
When they reach out,
As though to catch wavering handfuls of fireflies,
But only blank space is there
To clutch at, baffled numbed hands.
And the old flowers you once held,
The crumpled ones on the floor
By your feet,
Still are clustered together by your hold,
Tangled stems crushed into each other,
Clung to, as though for dear life.
The petals move in the air
As faintly as your fingers,
The slightest flutter against floorboards,
Some abstract dance
That no one else can see.
Listen here: Keaton Henson’s “Petrichor”