A restlessness
wrestles
below my skin
beyond currents of blood
through tendons and muscles
and burrows in my bones
then deeper
to a place I cannot point to
or touch
or even explain
except that
I know it is
my soul.
This restlessness is
hunger,
that gurgles in the night
or a slow rising
of invisible wings
and the gentle lifting
of my chin to point
to that blue ceiling
speckled with collections of dandelion seeds
in preparation to take flight
when the wind sweeps a certain way.
But restlessness never uses
plain sorts of words
is never explicit or clear.
She is a haze that clouds
the places I rest
so that I am never certain
I am where I hoped I was.
She gives a depth to life
and reminds me the breadth of
living,
widening eyes and
opening windows to let in fresh air.
She never speaks,
but looks out every window she passes
with a little bit of
longing.
********************
The strings tremble,
shaking out
a tune.
and the songs
that are sung
by the
trembling
are perhaps
the most beautiful
of all.
