Her Voice.
by Larry Knight
Her voice whispers the songs
of my mother.
Their notes, like soft razors
cut deep, draw blood, persuade
me to find my truth in her arms;
I am a dull blade moving against
my reason; she is a quarter note
of protest, delivering me and us
from the chains of our devise.
The tenor of revolution in verse
yields undefined complexity;
her notes, a rose plucked
from a mountainside is
a soft, fluttering passion
lost in the solemnity
She is the wind, I am a branch
on a tree bending with every note
shaped by the delicacy of wind.
Love is shared divinity;
we react, in motion,
finding quiet seconds;
reacting in harmony
against want,
against reason,
against logic,
against shared divinity
and passion and complexity.
We find hope in eternal springs;
she, enraptured by my commitment,
imbues me with revolution;
we dance eternally;
I, lost in her verse, fall;
she, like a sun rose, illuminates.
Copyright 2010 | Larry Knight
