{ found poem: from 11/4/2005 }

hope is heard from far
away; too inaudible to mention.
but there is still a searing question
singing faintly, like a scar.

i hear muffled promises of joy,
i hear histories in the sand.
i hear songs sung behind folded hands,
i hear birds calling through the grey.

but where is our stretch of ocean grasses?
where is our unnamed constellation?
where is my quiet reserve of patience
poured into clear glasses?

no whispers, no shouts.
a secret door is swinging open,
the ocean floor is mended slowly.
a heart is healed aloud.

this time the song is not the same:
the voice is silvered at the edges.
we take to the air, no longer fledglings,
since hope has called our names.

---s.r.