Friday, March 21, 2014

Consolation (Poem 355)

The first time I heard them, there 
were only a few, but the nights 
had been silent, long, cold, 
and their voices rose like hope 
from the woods, making 
my heart ache and sing. 

Soon, the chorus swelled to tens 
of thousands, a chaotic rapture, 
myriad silver threads 
embroidering thin, blue evenings 
with a complicated pattern. 

When I learned that, here, 
neither crickets nor fireflies 
would glaze the darkness with 
familiar summer sweetness, 
my ribcage throbbed, bruised 
by longing and regret. 

Still, the ache lingers (growing 
sharp if I touch that spot, 
just so); but the worst of it 
has passed, eased 

by the choir of countless, tiny 
camouflage-clad froglets, 
to whose voices I opened 
my windows, despite 
the seeping chill, and 

by the heart's willingness to rest 
for a few beats--pressed close against nature's breast--
and be soothed by 
lullabies ancient and familiar.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Photo: Kevin JF Martin

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