I wish I knew how to silence you
the restless drum of thought,
the echo chamber of yesterday
so I could listen to the crashing waves
speaking in their ancient grammar,
and the conversations between trees
written in wind and patience.
I want to hear nature’s way of sprinkling joy in the air,
like pollen, like dusted light,
but you persist with confidence and conviction,
a well-trained storyteller,
reminding me of past versions of me
the selves carved by hunger,
the maps drawn by lack,
the years when survival passed for wisdom
because you did not know better.
STOP
so I can hear the birds
charting invisible routes across the sky,
planning their migrations with no need for proof;
so I can hear leaves mourning their falling in the fall,
grieving without resistance,
and a rose wishing it did not have to be picked
and severed from its roots
just to be believed in the hands of a lover.
Let me hear a lion reminding me
that my roar is the silent part of my nature,
that power does not always announce itself,
that stillness is a muscle,
and sovereignty does not beg for witness.
I wish I knew how to remind you
that you are not small,
that you are not the wound you keep rehearsing,
that you are the length and the breath of the universe
a temporary name
for something endlessly becoming.
I wish I knew.
