So much music in a paper tube:
a whispering, precise diction—
crickets! racketing their brittle song,
a tunnel of grace notes and raspy vocabulary
The sound of movement:
Scrabble tiles spelling a skedaddle of mice in the walls,
crisp leaves scuffing down the tree-canopied street,
hoof beats of time’s tiny cavalry:
my children’s running footfalls followed by my grandchildren’s.
the sound of water made by what is dry,
computer keys tapping out some message
no one will ever read,
a tumultuous train of thoughts
on a short, impeded journey to nowhere.
All of these—
many small hands applauding the day.
© by Paula Schulz.
Used with the author’s permission.