The Weave

The Weave
 
These summer days are like the tinkling notes
that issue from a room where someone plays
a piano piece, as if in reverie,
that passersby upon a quiet street
may chance to hear, on walking home at eve,
and slow their steps, to breathe in tranquil ease.
  
And yet there is that roar that’s always there –
that often can be heard by ears but when
inaudible to these is present still –
that causes hearts to quicken, mouths to dry
for those who sense it, pausing then the breath
as muscles tauten for the precipice.
 
And which of these is truer, that I leave
for others to decide – like yin and yang,
the quiet and the screaming, pause and haste,
the opposites can interweave – and lives,
like breath itself, have tides that ebb and rise –
as seasons and their humors take their turn.
 
I walked within the woods and there I heard
the gurgling of a stream, the tinkling drop
of water and the rustling of the leaves –
but then I also heard another sound –
and coming to a clearing, I could see
the river, rushing towards the waterfall.
  
2014 August 23rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York