stanage poem

The sound that forgot to end itself

Sound is a shim. As if it is an only thing. As noise
could be that. Making on silence what a lilium
opening offers scent. Finding the sense amongst
the senses that best appreciates. And believing
that this sound comes now as it's needed. Or not
so. It could be an illusion to make sound a
particular irritant. On a worthy day it could be
that the eyes won't take such enormity on
without distractions. In the inner ear this shim.
Almost rushing where silence could be.
If silence exists. Perhaps only in space
is a mind filled. The awe and spectacle.
One's smallness in that. Perhaps only then
that silence wipes away doubts about looking.
About opening the whole grab bag of sensory craft.
As deployment is. Space must be other than anything else
and not like. So much is here all the time. Looking different
because of a sunray's momentary grace or its purpose.
The light crossing green things the natural warmth.
Filling senses. This shim catches it's place. Fills enough.