Breath moves through
the flute of me. What is
this lifeforce making music?
I open past my puny answers
to ask a wider flow.
For that, it whispers in my cells,
the bone you are
needs be hollowed further.
Carve me then, carve out
capacity for love to pour.
Expand my instrument to breathe
the world beyond my world.
Beside the melodies of love I’ve known,
alongside measures piping nature’s beauty,
let me breathe, as well, the notes of grief,
tones of suffering from war and hunger.
Let these together stream their patterns
inside the song breathed through me.
But let the stories fall away:
words of suffering and discord,
and tales of harmony and splendor, too.
Fling my tellings to the wind,
bury narratives in earth,
burn the tellings down to love!
When events are washed of all their stories.
and all I know through hollow bone is breathing,
then all that’s left is music.
All that’s left is music.
©Susa Silvermarie 2018